Mary, Meet Arcanine
by Copper Hikari
Summary: Mary Mackle is facing a crossroads of life. She's dropping out of school, her family is in shambles, and the boy she likes is completely unavailable. A particular, especially peculiar Arcanine showing up on her family's doorstep might be the jolt Mary's teenage life is waiting for.
1. You can talk!

Mary, Meet Arcanine

…

Chapter 1 - "You can talk?!"

My name is Mary Mackle.

I'm fifteen years old when this story happened, and I would have been starting the tenth grade, except for the fact that I was not going back to high school, because high school was for the average and the uninteresting, and I was meant for more.

Two things happened this year.

First, my mother died in a car crash back in January.

Then, at the start of July, I came home from running errands in town and found an Arcanine lying on our living room rug.

The screen door slammed behind me when I came home, that day. I had been running errands. Teenagers do that. Normal activities on a normal day.

The first abnormal thing I heard was the breathing.

Then there was the smell of must and hair. It wasn't like my brother, and by that I mean it wasn't _boy_ must-and-hair.

 _Then_ I saw the beast sprawled on the floor, either lying in wait for its prey, or doing the greatest Snorlax impersonation I had ever seen.

I put the groceries away slowly.

I shouldn't have been afraid of an Arcanine. I was around Pokemon all the time. Pokemon were our family's business.

See, we Mackles are Pokemon Breeders.

I finished putting everything away, and then I went into the living room, brave as brave could be, and stared it down.

The Arcanine was the size of our entire sofa. The crimson and white fur moved in time with our fan, all the way in the corner. Same went for its deep breathing. The Arcanine's deep orange eyes regarded me the way I might regard a moth in my room at night.

My glasses were getting sweat patches on the bridge of my nose, and a few pieces of hair had come loose from my braids and were tickling my forehead. I did not adjust them.

Step one: establish that you are unafraid. So far, so good.

Step two: use your voice.

"Hello," I said, careful not to choke. "It's hot today, isn't it?"

The Arcanine blinked slowly. Either the heat was exhausting, or _I_ was exhausting.

Step three: introduce yourself.

"My name is Mary. Mary Mackle."

The Arcanine was watching me, now.

"What's your name?"

It rolled around to its stomach, which was no easy feat. It left the rug covered in white and orange fur.

Usually, when I ask for a Pokemon's name, it tells me. Pokemon don't understand English the way you and I do, but they understand general questions. It's strange. I don't know how it works, only that it works. If Lincoln asks a Pokemon to say its name, it does it. Same for Dad.

"I asked you a question," I said as sweetly as I could. "What's your name?"

The Arcanine stood on its hind legs. It was bigger than I thought. It came up to my eye level and stayed there.

It was like I was looking into the proud eyes of a regal king, I swear.

The back door opened and closed, and then Dad was in the hallway.

"Mary's home!" Dad said. He ran his calloused hands through the thick black hair on his head. It was the only part of him that wasn't wrinkled and fifty-year-old-man-ish. He was in his work apron.

Dad moved between us—me and the Arcanine—the way a kid on the playground would move around a recess fight.

"Good form," Dad said in his Professor Dad voice. "I would advise breathing more next time. Maybe don't stand like a gargoyle. And what's with your face? It's all scrunched up. If Arcanine here were, I don't know, _drunk_ or something, he'd try to clock you."

"How do you know that?"

"If I were drunk, I would." A grin. My father, everybody.

Dad patted the warhound in our living room on its fluffy head. He fished a beer out of the fridge door.

"Dad, I have a question."

"I have an answer, Mary."

"Why is there a…"

The Arcanine tilted its head down. _It_ was examining _me_.

"Why is there an Arcanine in our house?'

Dad took a gulp from the can and breathed a relieved sigh, straight from a beer commercial. "Who?" Then: "Oh, the dog. Yeah, I have no idea."

"Really."

"Lincoln said one of your school friends dropped it off. Something about it being a stray? I don't know, I wasn't here when it happened. I just figured it could stay in the garage until we give it a home."

He said it like we had found someone's suitcase.

I jabbed a finger at our new couch-surfer. "Dad, we can't foster a fully-evolved Pokemon. I don't think that's even legal."

It was. I was being dramatic.

"You're being dramatic," Dad said. To the couch-surfer: "My daughter is being rude. Arcanine, this is Mary. Mary, meet Arcanine."

"We're already acquainted," I said grudgingly.

"Linc is in the back," Dad said. He went through the pantry and found the bag of potato chips. Clearly, the workday had ended. "There's a Wonder Trade shipment coming through. Help him with it?"

My hand dropped.

I became very aware of the heavy breathing on my shoulder.

"Arcanine won't bite. He's a chill fella, aren't you, Arcanine?"

Says my father to the Pokemon that had been in our home for all of two, three hours, tops.

Dad sat at the sofa and fished the remote out of the cushions. I got out of the way, and the TV flipped on to some reality show with allegedly real housewives, or something. It caught Arcanine's attention, and he went back to lying around like he owned the place.

I wiped the sweat and hair from my face. Arcanine did not attack me or challenge me for dominance.

Maybe we could get along, I thought.

…

I found Lincoln where Dad said he would be. We live quite a ways out: when you get to the midway point between Mauville City and Lavaridge Town, take an immediate right and deliberately get yourself lost, and you'll probably find our home. Having a garage larger than your home might seem strange to normal people.

If the Arcanine in the living room didn't tip you off, though…

"Hey," Lincoln said when he heard the door open and my footsteps come inside, and I responded with a loud "Hoooooooooy," because that's what I say.

Now, our garage isn't really a garage. It's more of a studio: we have a smaller room that's got trading machines for when we get new Pokemon from distributors to raise or train, another room for healing equipment and food, and then the rest of it is for our in-house gym.

Lincoln stood at the far end, and I didn't catch what Pokemon zipped back into his outstretched Pokeball. He flipped the ball in his hand, and on the other side of the arena, Harry—Lincoln's Hariyama—put its gargantuan hands on its Olympian hips, proud of its work.

Lincoln's hazel eyes found me, and he smiled. He always did. I think that's what got him the job.

"How's life outside?" He asked me.

Lincoln's not much older than me—seventeen to my fifteen—but the way his voice dropped over the summer, you'd think he was ancient. Relatively. Like, twenty-five.

"I've been running drills in here all day with Harry," he said. He sniffed his bicep. "Might want to breathe through your mouth."

I went up to the arena and rested my arms on the low wall surrounding it. "Dad said I'm supposed to help you with a new shipment?" And casually: "There's also something about a _man-sized killer beast_ in our living room..?"

"Oh!" Lincoln was always saying that. You could see the exclamation mark go off over his head. "Christy brought that over."

Christy Wallach was a girl from my would-have-been-high-school.

"She was with some friends. I tried to be polite."

She joined up with Team Aqua in seventh grade. Apparently they scout early.

"It was either we take the Arcanine, though, or her people would get rid of it. I didn't want to argue with them, Mary. You know what they're like."

Some kid named Brendan beat both Team Aqua and Team Magma back in February. It was all over the news. Team Magma broke up right away, but the Aquas splintered off. The groups that remained were self-driven, and pretty mean.

"My brother," I started. "Kurt wasn't with them, was he?"

Lincoln laughed. "I think it would have been a different conversation if he were, Mare-bear."

Lincoln calls me that. He had called me that for a while, now. I don't stop him, and I didn't stop him then.

Linc jumped over the low wall, and he waved me to follow him into the Wonder Trade room. There was a nice crate of fresh Pokeballs, from all over the world, to be sorted.

"Pull up a chair," Linc said. He sat on the workbench and handed me a handheld scanner. He picked up his own, and I watched him the first time to remember how to use it. Press the button to start a red light, point the light into the Pokeball lock, print the label the scanner makes, put it on the ball. You'd think this could be automated.

Twenty minutes in, and I'm popping my lips and bobbing my head. "Boring," I said.

"Pretty much." Linc put a label on a Great Ball and tossed it into our 'done' crate. "But I prefer the company."

That smile, again. I grinned back.

Lincoln coming to live with us could have been its own event, up there with the big two I listed at the start of this book. But the way I see it, he only came to live with us because of Mom, and Mom happened for no damn good reason, so there it is.

It was a few months after _it_ , and a couple weeks after the funeral. Dad was behind in his shipments. We had just landed the Pokemon Stadium organization as a contractor, and we were getting a ton of Pokeballs sent by the day. Mackle Farms was to open each Pokeball, go through one test fight to make sure the Pokemon inside was healthy, and send it back with a health diagnosis. With Mom and Kurt, it would have been easy.

With neither of them, me initiating Operation: Drop Out, and Dad facing one of those midlife crisis things, it looked like we were going to have our contract dropped.

I came home one day from eighth-and-last grade, and Lincoln was sitting at the dining room table.

It was weird, since Lincoln's family lived all the way in Rustboro City, on the coast. (I knew this because we went to the same grade school, and he moved when he graduated to middle school.)

It was even _weirder_ , because I had a crush on Lincoln the size of Rayquaza, and everyone knew it, including him. In third grade, I followed him around enough that his friends thought I was trying to steal his things. That's how our parents met: Dad promising Lincoln's mother that I was not creepy.

Usually, when strange girls stalk boys, the boys make quick getaways of some kind.

Lincoln wasn't going to college, and he needed a job. His mother wasn't happy with the decision. He wanted to be a Pokemon Breeder, and there aren't many good programs on this side of Hoenn.

So, Dad brought him on as an assistant. He moved into the loft above the main garage area.

Lincoln and his stupid smiling and his hazel eyes and his boy muscles and _stupid_ blond cowlick-y hair had been living with us for four months now.

Every moment was exactly like this:

Linc: "That's the fifth Meowth in this batch. Is this Pokemon Stadium or Lonely Cat Ladies Incorporated?"

Me: "Huh."

World around us: (Mildly-companionable silence.)

Lincoln was dating Christy. Christy, who was popular enough to be in Team Aqua—even though they're complete tools—and was older and prettier and her boobs are perky and all of that, and she even drops off random Arcanines during the day.

The best I could do was a pathetic 'huh'.

If I could drop out of liking Lincoln too, I probably would have.

…

Lincoln and I got through the scanning-and-labeling, and afterwards, it was time to come inside for dinner. Dad was a lousy chef, and Drunk Dad was a fire hazard, but Mildly-Tipsy Dad knew how to make a mean lasagna.

The table was already set when we came inside. "Wash your hands," Dad said, as if the hulking fire dog taking up all of the space and making the house smell like animal wasn't strange at all.

Midway into our meal, Arcanine decided to come up to the edge of our dinner table and sniff at the edge. He had as much stealth as a ninja with two left feet. I held my plate up high above my head and tried eating that way.

Dad nuzzled up to it, but Lincoln objected, to the tune of "Mister Mackle, it's getting hair in my food."

Dad snapped to attention. "Arcanine, you are committing treason by sabotaging my lasagna." He pointed to the living room. "Go on your bed!"

I said that Arcanine wasn't our pet. He didn't have a bed.

This puzzled Dad. To Arcanine: "Go away…? Please?"

We ultimately had to give Arcanine its own plate of lasagna, and I didn't know what was more bizarre: a Pokemon enjoying human food more than we did, or how this was the first time we had had four place settings since January.

I didn't mention it. But I spent the meal beaming like an idiot.

…

This was all set-up. So you know.

The Arcanine was the start of the story, but the _start_ -start happened at two in the morning, when the front door opened and closed, and I heard the footsteps coming up the stairs, and saw the light flick on in the room across the hall.

Something fell over, and a boy chuckled at it, and another voice told him to be quiet.

My brother's.

I shot out of bed and went to my door.

I proceeded to stare at the closed door for the entire time Kurt was under our roof.

I hadn't seen him since school ended. He came home whenever he knew Dad and I wouldn't be, and he _really_ stayed away from Lincoln. Linc didn't resent working for us in any way, but he _did_ mention that someone could help out but was choosing not to.

I heard something unzip, and the sound of clothes flying. Kurt was unpacking and packing.

One of Kurt's idiot friends: "There's something sleeping downstairs, bro."

Kurt: "This is a Pokemon farm. It's probably harmless." My dad's genes at work.

The light switched off. One set of feet went down the stairs and opened the door. The other quietly shut the bedroom door, and lingered in the hallway.

I visualized myself opening the door in Kurt's face, injuring him just enough to make him stay home.

The moment passed. Kurt was down the stairs and out the door. I listened for an engine to start, and then for four wheels to steal my brother away into the night.

The sound never came. There was idiot-boy-cackle further down the road. They were walking, then.

I don't know what came over me. One moment, I was standing at the door of my bedroom, wearing my oversized Invader Zim pajama shirt. The next, I was wearing pajama bottoms and one of Lincoln's sweaters—he willingly gave this one to me—and heading out the door in my sneakers.

Kurt's friend brought a bike. Out in the country like this, once you get away from our house, you can't see your hand in front of your face. It's the stars above you, the corn stalks for miles and miles, then plains, and then nothing. So the red light on the back of Kurt's bike was a godsend.

It took me all of twenty minutes to recognize that there were six feet moving around me, and I only had two. I turned around, but I didn't stop walking.

"Go home," I huffed at the Arcanine, even though it probably didn't think of Mackle Farms as 'home' and couldn't get back if it tried.

If my own brother didn't think of our home as his, why would Arcanine?

"Be quiet, then," I hushed. I put a finger to my lips. The Arcanine nodded. (I somehow did not think that was strange.)

We followed the road up to the one and only fork, and since the corn stalks were long over, I was able to follow the bike light down the right turn. It was another ten minutes of careful staying-just-enough-behind-to-not-be-seen, and finally, with the outline of Slateport's docks coming up on the violet night horizon, I saw Kurt's friends.

Team Aqua was never a smart bunch. I knew this because they wore bandanas and shirts, but specialized with water and ice Pokemon. If I were permanently freezing, I would look as angry as Aqua members do, too.

I recognized a few of the kids from school. Park Hinton, Who Sat In Front Of Me And Never Shaved His Neck Hair was there in the crowd; Neil "Spitball" Kidd hovered on the edge of the group, hands in his pockets, probably looking for a wad of something to ball up.

A light from far down the road, and after a moment, I could hear the engine. The single light meant a motorcycle; I lay on the road and peeked up over the tall grass. Arcanine did the same.

The motorcycle seemed to take forever to pull up to the group. The driver cut the engine but left the front headlight on. He climbed off of the seat, and I could tell right away that this was a grown man. Not older high school, and not even college. He wore a leather jacket with the sleeves cut off, his jeans were shiny and probably real leather, and I couldn't see his face, but the scraggly beard was scary in itself. What was he, a pirate?

The crowd gathered toward him. The man was smart enough to keep his voice down, because even though nobody was out this far in the country, voices still carried. He said a quick spiel—I didn't catch any words, but there was a quick groan from everyone listening, and it was silenced super-fast—and then he was back on the bike. He drove off the way he came, and the Aqua members followed. Those who had bikes or skateboards used them. I couldn't tell which was my brother anymore. They all wore bandanas, and I was an idiot for not following closer and seeing what Kurt looked like with it on.

I was an idiot for coming all the way out here. Dad would kill me. Lincoln wouldn't blame him, either.

…Was I an idiot for thinking I could do something?

…Like _what,_ Mary?

Really, what could you have done?

You could have stood up and told Mister Pirate Aqua Man, "Kick my brother out of your gang, because he has chores to do at home!" That would have gone over great.

I climbed up to my haunches and stood up, and fanned my arms. Arcanine got up on his feet, too.

"This was a mistake," I told nobody, although I knew Arcanine was listening anyway. "Let's get home. God, what time is it?"

I rubbed sleep from my eyes and started back the way we came.

I took two steps.

I stopped, wheeled right around, and even though Team Aqua was gone, I shouted the way I should have when they were here. A guttural wail, the kind of thing characters in myths write about, and the top of my windpipe hurt, and my jaw was sore, but once I was done, I felt that much better.

Sometimes, you just need to scream.

We got home easily enough. I had half a mind to sleep in the scrub. Kurt would regret coming home, because if he hadn't then I would never have gone after him, and everything would be his fault, and he would come home.

…Except then he would probably hate being home, anyway.

…And the fact that I might end up dead in the morning. Wild Pokemon live in tall grass, don'cha know.

I opened and closed the door as quietly as I could. The knob slipped out of my hands at the last minute and the door gave a very audible 'click' as the jamb hit home. I counted to five—long enough for Dad to stir—and when he didn't, I started for the stairs.

The stairs sank under me. I knew I could stand to drop ten pounds, like everybody else in the world, but was I that..?

No, of course not. That stupid Arcanine was following me.

"Get on your bed," I said. But: "You don't have a bed. You don't even live here." I rubbed my eyes again, but it wasn't keeping me awake. If I stayed here and fought Arcanine, I risked falling asleep where I stood. Dad would love to find that in the morning.

"You're coming with me, I guess."

We got to my bedroom, and I shut the door behind me. I switched out of my trekking outfit and lay in bed, and the mattress was a cloud from heaven. Arcanine spread his body along my hardwood floor.

"Hold on," I groaned. I sat up and spread a throw blanket. Arcanine lay back down, and if he was any more thankful, I couldn't tell.

I went back to bed. I blinked once, and then I was out.

…

A knock at the door. Followed by a sad attempt at that rooster call thing.

"Rise and shine!" Dad bellowed. "Time to start another day!" Knuckles rapping the wall as he went down the stairs. "There are chores to be done!"

I rolled over and pushed my pillow over my head.

Lincoln was already in the kitchen. Dad was being his normal loud morning person self: "Thanks for cooking, Linc." Then: "Where's our guest? I hope he didn't run out, or anything."

Our guest. That was sweet of my dad to say.

I sat up, with difficulty.

"Morning is the balls," I said, and then it was, "My brother is _the_ _balls_."

Speaking of.

Dad, calling up the stairs: "Mary? Is the Arcanine up there with you? There aren't supposed to be Pokemon in the bedrooms."

Arcanine was not in my room. No, siree bob.

Lying on my throw blanket was a buck-naked boy.

It wasn't just _any_ boy, either. This one was a looker. Wavy mahogany-brown hair, wide eyes closed, full lips breathing with a totally-normal-and-not-beastlike-in-any-way cadence, and—

Dad: "Mary?!"

He was startled because my eyes dropped a bit too far, and I shrieked like someone were stabbing me.

"I'm fine," I said through the door. "Don't come in! Not wearing anything!" Technically not a lie. _I_ was clothed.

Linc, from downstairs: "Does the Mare-bear want waffles? I made her favorite."

"Yes!" I hollered. I tried stepping off of the bed, but…what the hell?

Why was there a naked boy _on my floor?_

 _What the hell?!_

I shut my eyes and held my hand over my face, to be on the safe side. My other hand fumbled for my duvet, and I threw it on the floor, hoping it hit the parts of him that I needed it to. I steeled myself and opened my eyes again. The comforter hit the boy in the middle of his body, so his torso and…other things were mercifully covered up.

The impact had stirred him. The boy pushed himself to sitting. He had wide hands, like Lincoln. He yawned into one and brushed the back of his head with the other, _also_ like Lincoln.

Next, he opened his eyes, and if the shade of baby blue in them was too beautiful to be human, this proved it—

"Morning, Mary," he said. His own voice surprised him. He sat straight up, a cartoon character with his hand in a power socket, and he watched me with the same stunned expression I gave him.

Him: "I'm not…I switched again, didn't I?"

Me: "I…You…You can _talk?!_ "

Because clearly, that was the strange part about my morning. By far.

* * *

It's great to be back.

Leave a review if you like, and thanks always for reading.

If you're interested in what Mary's adventure has in store, please follow along! It'll be a blast.


	2. My family is lost, too

Mary, Meet Arcanine

…

Chapter 2 - "My family is lost, too."

The boy tried standing up. It was in slow motion, too, so I was treated to my comforter sliding down his stomach, and then his knees were moving and the comforter revealed a V shape around his waist and—

"Stop!"

"Stop what?"

We were frozen there for a second, him waving his hand slowly to coax words out of me, and me still unsure that I wasn't in a perverse nightmare.

The boy, repeating: "Stop what?"

"You're not—keep your voice down!—You're not wearing anything!"

"I know. I'm not supposed to. It's a waste of money, really. Fur keeps you warm, surprisingly so." He touched a finger to his mouth as he said it, like he was contemplating as he spoke. "I guess actual people have different decency rules, though."

The boy recognized the completely-and-totally-lost expression on my face.

"Out in the tall grass? Let me tell you, Mary Mackle. Elektrikes are a thirsty breed." And: "That's not a Kanto expression, is it? Tell me you guys say that here, too. I love that phrase."

"You know my name."

"Duh." Mimicking me: "'My name is Mary Mackle. What's yours?'" And in his own voice: "I'm Roger, by the way. Commit it to memory."

"I'll remember this," I said shrewdly.

The boy—er, Arcanine—I mean, _Roger_ side-stepped to my dresser and started pulling drawers open.

"What are you _doing?!_ "

Dad, downstairs: "Mary, food's getting cold."

Roger: "You're being a lousy host. I'm going to freeze to death, good God. What do you have by way of a Mens' 32 waistline?"

I wanted to stop looking at him, but I couldn't _not_ stare.

And not because he had fancy lean back muscles that rippled as he dug through my clothing. He wasn't a fan of my almost-exclusive plain white and black shirt wardrobe, and he got to one of my more worn-out bras and made a scrunched-up-at-the-nose face that belonged on a Pokemon, not a person. I was watching a crazy person, at point-blank range.

Footsteps, coming up the stairs.

Me to Roger: "Get in the garage!"

A knock on the door. "Mary?" Lincoln, not my Dad, but: "Your dad thinks you fell in the toilet, or something. But I mean, there isn't a toilet in your room…right?"

Stupid goofy Lincoln, he was probably scratching the back of his head and laughing at his own words—

Roger, gratefully whispering: "What's in the garage?"

"Meet me there," I said. I flew off the bed and opened my window.

Me, to Roger: "Jump out."

Me, to Lincoln: "I'm having a wardrobe malfunction!"

Lincoln to me: "That's not fatal, is it?" Stupid jovial Lincoln.

Roger to me: "That's a ten foot drop, easy!"

Me to Roger: "You'll fall in the tall grass. It's that or…wherever! The lab or something!"

Roger: "I am _not_ a science experiment, if that's what you—"

Lincoln, wising up: "Who are you talking to?"

The time for talk was over, should never have started, and was a train-wreck the entire time it commenced.

I nudged Roger closer to the window. Finally he conceded, putting both feet up on the windowsill and completely exposing the crack of his ass. I whipped my head away so quickly, I gave myself brief motion sickness.

Roger fell down into the tall grass, my duvet following him like a sad cape, into the tall grass below.

I ran to my bedroom door and flung it open.

"Hi!" I told Lincoln. I pulled hair off of my shoulders and started re-doing the braids. I even flashed a casual smile.

Linc was unimpressed.

Me, casual-ish: "What's for breakfast?"

…

I hurried through Lincoln's waffles, even though I hated to do so. Each and every time he cooked for us, it was a reminder that somewhere in the world, things moved normally. There would always be sweet boys who cooked and baked and fished you out of bed in the morning, and although my family was no longer an always-would-be, that didn't mean the world was a no-longer-is.

I think that made sense.

Dad stopped me on my way out the back door. "Where's the emergency? Did someone start a fire?"

"No," I said curtly, with the door open and one foot already on the wood steps. The morning chill bit through my pajama pants. My nightshirt did nothing either, and I immediately felt awful about throwing Roger out the way I did.

Roger. What the hell kind of name for an Arcanine was _that?_

(He was still technically an Arcanine…right?)

Dad was still doing his typical Dad thing: eating breakfast, drinking coffee, and reading the news off of our family laptop. "Where did our guest go? He wasn't here when I came down."

Quick, Mary. Make a fib!

"He slept in my room."

…Or not.

Dad gave me the universal concerted-parent angry eye. "Mary, there are no Pokemon allowed upstairs. You know the rule."

"I do! I'm sorry. It was cold downstairs, and I came down to get some water, and he followed me up, and I didn't have the heart to make him go away. He seemed so lonely."

Stern-voice Dad: " _Mary_ , we've talked about this…"

Me, exploiting him: "It felt inhumane, is all."

That was Dad's million-dollar buzz-word. Call something relating to Pokemon 'inhumane' and he'll take up pitchforks and start rooting for revolution.

"I'm just going to get some food for him," I said, which might end up being the truth. Dad bought it, and I went outside.

Once I was far away enough that I was sure Dad and Lincoln weren't watching, I ran back around to the other side of my house. I had stuffed a day's outfit into a tote bag and dropped it from my window. I found it being gnawed on by a pair of Zigzagoon in the bramble by the road.

I took the bag back, and I made a stern face. "That's not yours," I told them. I added, "And good morning, Mister and Missus Zigzagoon."

I didn't know if they were a couple or whatever. Manners are simply good to have.

Roger was in the garage and pacing around by the arena's low walls. He had wrapped himself in my duvet from head to toe, but he was still shivering. When he spotted me, relief washed over him.

"I brought stuff," I told Roger. I passed the bag. "I got you my biggest pair of sweats and one of Lincoln's hoodies." A stolen one, by the way.

Roger reached a lanky arm out for the bag. I snatched it back.

"Rude," Roger chided.

"If you're wearing my clothes, then you're giving me some answers."

"Yes, of course."

I almost gave him the bag. I pulled it away again, and Roger wailed a long "Come _on_ ," but I remained steadfast.

"Not some stupid cryptic half-answers, either! I don't want some stupid prophecy, or something about a myth and a fallen kingdom, or—"

"What are you _talking about?!_ "

"You're a shape-shifting—" And hushing myself: "You're a shape-shifting Pokemon! That's what you are, right? A legend! Not a Legendary legend, but a _legend_ legend!"

I didn't mean to sound excited, honest.

Roger blushed. We were both a pair of white kids, but Roger was pale, where I was fat in the face and pretty resistant to burning. Working in the country does that.

"I wouldn't say I'm a _legend,_ " Roger said. "Roger the Arcanine, Age eighteen. A legend. Huh. Thank you for that, Mary Mackle."

I held up two fingers. "It's just 'Mary'," I started, then: "Eighteen?" It occurred to me. "And you saw me in my underwear. Are you some kind of pervert?"

"If I was, you probably wouldn't be saying that so calmly."

"Good point."

Roger looked past me, and his eyebrows shot up like a cartoon character's.

"What is it?" I asked. I turned to find the distress, and there it was: Lincoln coming up the path.

"Oh, no," I said. "I told him there was an Arcanine here. Dad's ridiculous about taking in Pokemon, but if he thinks I met some strange boy and brought him home, he will _flip_."

I reeled back around to Roger.

I found an Arcanine wrapped around my duvet cover and slobbering all over it.

"I'm not following you around, honest," Linc said as he came inside. He was in his busted-up work jeans, but he was wearing converse and a shirt with some band's logo. In his hand was a sheet of yellow legal pad paper. "Your dad wants us to go into town today. More like _me_ , really, but when was the last time you got out of your room?"

He came out of his monologue and recognized the Arcanine.

"I get the Arcanine in the garage," Lincoln said slowly. "Why is it in your covers?"

Think fast, Mary. And don't be an idiot this time about it.

"He was cold," I said.

Linc watched me say it. I made a point of keeping eye contact and not fidgeting, like the Internet told me to do.

Finally he let it go. "He's part of the chore list, actually." Lincoln came my way, holding the paper out with his arm stretched. Was he holding a fire poker or a chore list?

I read it carefully.

Get Arcanine examined by Pokemon Center.

Grocery run: non-fat milk, day-of-expiration frozen vegetables and baking soda

Renew contract with Mauville Gym

Two of the three had nothing to do with me. If Lincoln were honest, none of it had _anything_ to do with me.

But I understood why he wanted some help today.

"When are you meeting Christy?" I asked.

"As early as possible. That counts as an answer, right?"

"Not really, but the judging committee allows it this time." This wasn't the first time I helped Lincoln finish his work quicker so he could be around Christy, and it wasn't the first time I did so while swallowing my pride. "Let me get dressed. Five minutes?"

"Ten," Linc said. "The truck needs to warm up first. And eat some more waffles. I made extra." He left the garage and started for the carport by the house. Our decade-old pickup truck waited.

Immediately afterward, there was an earthquake.

Or not.

"Clearly, that sound means you're hungry," I told Roger. He wagged his majestic tail at me.

…

We weren't driving into Mauville City for the day. That wasn't even a day trip: Mauville meant six hours on the road, plus pit stops, and in good traffic.

Like I said, we live in the middle of nowhere. Two hours to the coast, six-to-eight hours to civilization.

Dead in the middle of the wasteland was Buttonwillow, a small-ish town that served its single, lonely purpose. It had precisely ten intersections, one movie-theater, a used bookstore, a grocery store, some hardware, and a few cafes.

Then you got your Pokemon Center, like everyplace else, but if you were expecting a theater, or a park, or any kind of amenity whatsoever, forget it.

I was happy to have Buttonwillow. Our trips into town gave me a few hours with Lincoln, and it gave me proof that the world _was_ , in fact, still moving.

Just because I was withdrawing from the world by dropping out did not mean that the world ceased to be. Buttonwillow and Linc were alike in that way.

Lincoln played Internet radio off of his smartphone. We didn't talk during these trips, not traditionally. Nobody talks over 80's music.

Roger was free to hang his head out of the window and slobber through it, though.

We pulled off of the highway and parked in one of the lots surrounding Buttonwillow. There were a few houses, and even one or two apartment complexes nearby. The air was still thick here, but it also had city smell to it.

Fun fact: did you know that smog has a very specific taste?

I got out of the car and opened the back door for Roger. He jumped out, scrambled to all fours, and shook his mane out.

Lincoln saw the whole thing with a skeptic's eye. "Aren't Arcanines supposed to be formal Pokemon, or something?"

I nodded.

"Like…the legendary Pokemon _before_ we discovered Legendary Pokemon?" Lincoln jabbed his thumb at Roger, who was panting wildly. "This guy?"

"'S probably why Dad wants him looked at," I said, fully aware that Roger was listening. "There's something weird about him."

We started toward the town center. Buttonwillow did its best to have an actual town feel, and this meant brick sidewalks and cobblestone roads for its fifteen-ish blocks. The storefronts were modeled after 1900s architecture, so there were a lot of green walls with words embossed in gold, and the streetlights were those squat metal ones that became breathtaking come the winter.

A Pokemon Center is still a Pokemon Center, though. We stopped in front of it.

"This is where I leave you?" Lincoln asked. I agreed, and he gave me the run-down. "Christy and I are going to bum around. It's not a date-date, you know? It's a hang-out date."

"Ice cream, watch the tall grass, talk about each others' eyes? That sort of thing?"

"That sort of thing," Lincoln agreed. "I'll meet you here at…let's call it five?"

Linc wouldn't be able to call me, because I didn't have a phone. Neither did Dad or Kurt. I blame the state of the Pokemon Breeders' economy.

"I'll be here," I promised.

"Great. Be careful, yeah? Don't hang out with creepy older kids."

"Besides you?"

Was I directing that at Lincoln or Roger?

Either way, Linc did that idiot boy-giggle of his, and then he was off on his own. He glanced back and gave me another wave, and I did the same, and that was it.

"It's you and me," I told Roger. "Let's see if someone can't—"

He was gone.

Like, there was almost a fill-in-the-blank outline of an Arcanine standing where he used to be.

"Roger?" I walked toward the empty space, expecting him to pop out of thin air. "Where'd you go?"

"Here!"

A voice from the alley beside the Pokemon Center. I followed it. Roger's brightly-colored and very human head of hair poked out from behind an olive dumpster. He peeked over it and his almond-shaped eyes seemed amused by all of this.

"You did it again!" I wailed, and Roger echoed, "I did it again."

"Now, look." Can you tell that I was getting aggravated? "There's obviously something wrong with you, and I can't in good faith let you around my dad and Lincoln without knowing what that is. Turn back into an Arcanine and let's get you examined, okay?"

Roger dropped all levity. "I can't go in there."

I sighed. "Why not?"

"I'm not a Pokemon, Mary. Look at me."

"That's what I'm saying. Switch back, already."

"I _can't_. It doesn't work that way. I barely held it all the way in the truck. I felt like I was going to explode. I need to be a person for a while. That's how it is."

'That's how it is.' Some guest this Roger character was turning out to be.

"Well, I don't have any clothing with me," I said.

"That's fine. I found some stuff in here." His arm stretched up and pointed at the trash.

"If I'm not letting you in my house without knowing what you even _are_ , what makes you think wearing garbage is—"

"It's only until I change back," Roger said. He was very obviously eighteen: he had the same whining wail as the rest of us adolescence-ers. Adolescents. Whatever. "Can we walk around for an hour or two? I promise, I'll put the clothes back, I'll shift back, and I'll let the doctors prod me wherever."

I wanted to argue, but for a bizarre maybe-mythical being, Roger was being awfully reasonable. I conceded.

"You're a wonderful woman, Mary Mackle," Roger said, and I felt a flush over my cheeks.

He stepped out from the garbage heaps wearing a white shirt dirtied to a deep brown, and a pair of women's jeans that fit him like skinny jeans and tapered at the ankle. No shoes.

"People will think you're homeless," I said.

"It's hippie chic," Roger said. "And I'm part-Pokemon. The world is my home."

"Only part-Pokemon?"

Roger didn't answer me. He came out onto the red brick road and led the way. I followed, praying that nobody would recognize me, but remembering that everyone I knew lived in Mauville City or one of its outlying suburbs.

We ambled for a while, and I made a point of sticking to the cafes and shops to avoid Lincoln. What would he say if he caught me with some random hippie-chic fellow?

I gave Roger another once-over. He was handsome, I had to admit. Almost too handsome.

"Your jaw is like, chiseled," I said, disbelieving. We were stopped at a crosswalk. No cars were coming, but the red walk light didn't know that.

Roger ran a hand along his stubble. "Thank you."

"No, not like…You're just really pretty. Even your cheekbones, they're up in the stratosphere."

I reached up and poked him just below the eye. Roger playfully swatted my hand away. "Look, but don't touch. That's the rule with the ladies."

The ladies. I mimicked my dad's annoyed eye.

Another thunderous stomach roar from Roger, this time in a human tone.

I was _this close_ to complaining that he had eaten only an hour or so ago, but then I recalled what he looked like under the clothes. Not _that_ way, either: he was all skin and bones.

"Roger, are you starving?"

"Right now? _Oh,_ yes."

"I meant as a general thing."

Roger pulled his lips to the side. Then: " _Oh_ , yes."

The poor thing.

"Sit over there," I said, pointing to a fancy-looking bench nearby. "I'll get us something."

"Mary, I don't need—"

"I'm not bringing a malnourished Arcanine to a doctor," I said. "I'll be right back." If Roger could tell that I didn't want to be seen with him in close-quarters, he wasn't showing it.

"The only thing I don't eat is human flesh," Roger said cheerfully. He sat, as told.

I was disappointed that he didn't sit with legs up on the seat and bent and his tongue out, but what are you gonna do?

I went into the deli across the street as soon as the eternal walk sign changed. The windows were tinted, so I didn't know that it was a terrible idea to enter until I already had.

It started off fine. Air conditioning, gentle blue tile flooring, some bland indie rock on the radio…

"Mary?"

And then I looked up.

"Mary! It _is_ you!"

My one-and-only friend, Nimona Wallach, was working the desk. I was stunned that I hadn't recognized her by the way her hair reached down to her waist, or how it was so black, sometimes I stared at it in class and found myself temporarily disoriented. She was a few pounds on the heavier side, like myself, but _unlike_ me, she had a few _more_ pounds in places that _weren't_ a problem. She also wasn't hidden behind glasses the way I was.

Once, someone in school had said Nimona and I were separated-at-birth sisters, except I was the ugly one.

Such is life.

"Hooooooooy," I said.

Nimona did a salute and made the same sound back to me. Even with her deli shop visor and blue work apron, Nimona was the picture of contentment. "What's on the agenda for today, Miss Mary Mackle?"

"Buying lunch," I said.

"Monosyllabic today, I see." She waved her hand in the air—clear and glossy nail polish—and eventually gestured to the menu above us. "What'll it be?"

"Um…Ham? With cheese?"

"I'm supposed to ask what kind of cheese you want, but I will serve you _the best_ cheese." She rang it up, and I handed her cash. The register created a small print order, and Nimona walked it back to the kitchen. Then she came back my way.

"How's work at home these days?"

Well, I met a shape-shifting Arcanine.

"Ooh!" Nimona clapped her hands. "I saw Apple walking earlier. I hoped you would be in town, too, but I figured, why wouldn't you both be together? I mean, you have him all to yourself."

We called Lincoln 'Apple' as a code-word so people wouldn't know who we were talking about.

Now that I was never going back to school, it seemed suddenly juvenile.

"He's busy," I said. "And besides, I—"

"He wasn't with the she-devil, was she?"

A painful smirk escaped my nose.

"Christy is _not_ a she-devil, Nimona."

"She's the evil queen that's stolen your Apple and is going to return him poisoned."

I paused. Then: "That's not how that story goes. And I don't think Christy's diseased in any way…"

"No, because that's what she _wants_ you to think."

Nimona nodded once, twice at her own conclusion.

There was a 'ding' behind the register. Nimona retreated to the kitchen area, and came back with a sandwich the size of her forearm, wrapped up and plastered with a barcode. Nimona placed it on the counter and reached for the soda cups. "Did you want a Coke with…the hell is that?"

She was staring past me and at the front window.

Roger—still human—was staring inside the deli.

Staring, as in, his hands on the glass and cupping his eyes, which were bugged out and straining against the outside tint.

"I didn't think Buttonwillow had predators…"

"He's a friend," I said. "It's just Roger. He's…strange."

"Uh-huh." Nimona must have been noticing Roger's lack of shoes, and the way his clothes seemed stained to an artistic extent. "Is he from…out of town, or something?"

Roger's eyes met the sandwich.

He—still the teenage boy variety Roger—licked his lips and started hyperventilating.

"He's from Lillycove," I said, the words tumbling. "Lillycove University. They're big on being _one_ with Pokemon. It's why he's slobbering and acting like one right now."

That made sense, right?

Nimona seemed to buy it. She loaded me up with a large Diet Coke and didn't charge me for it. "BFF perk," she said. Also: "Roger's his name? He's been staring at you for a while, now."

"Lillycove thing," I said quickly. If I didn't hurry, Roger might come and nip at my heels or something. I took the sandwich and drink.

"Mary, wait for a second?"

I did.

Nimona waited before speaking. "Is everything okay at home? For you, I mean."

I scoffed. "Nim, you're not my mother."

"No. I'm not."

Cue the Sympathetic Nimona Frown. If I had chubby cheeks, it was because puberty wasn't done; Nimona had them so she could make the sad face of every Disney Princess, ever.

"If something's wrong, you can call me. Always. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," I said quickly. "I'll call you later to prove it. How's that?"

Nimona conceded. "That works for me."

I pushed the door open and Roger pounced.

"Mary, you are _the best person ever and oh god is this ham I love ham, ham get in my body right NOW._ " He tore the packaging with his teeth.

The door closed slowly, just enough for Nimona to watch the display.

If I didn't know better, I'd think she might have thought Roger and I were…whatever. No, thanks.

…

Roger ate most of his lunch in the seconds it took him to unwrap it. I bought a hot dog from a street vendor, which Roger refused to eat—he couldn't be convinced that there weren't Rattata parts in it—and so we settled on going back to the truck and sitting with the air and radio on for an hour. It's what happens when you spend all of your allowance on food.

I was in the driver's seat. I couldn't be sure people wouldn't freak out at a stranger in our truck.

"That means you're pretty well-known around here, right?" Roger asked.

"Look around. It's a small place. Nimona lives an hour away from here. Her folks give her gas money." I scanned the radio.

Roger stretched his arms. "She looked a lot like you."

"We get told that."

"She was almost like a _happier_ you," Roger said. I caught him doing a taut smile my way.

"Nimona _is_ a happier me."

"But I thought you were friends."

"We are."

"Huh. Bizarre."

I rested my arm out the window. " _I'm_ bizarre? Geez, talk about the pot calling the kettle black."

"I'm only saying, you didn't really seem friendly to her."

"Yeah, and there's a reason for that."

Roger tapped his fingers on the truck door. "Am I going to hear it?"

"Depends. Am I going to know about—Oh, no."

"What's 'oh, no'?"

"We forgot to get you to the Pokemon Center!" I tapped the clock on the dashboard. "And it's already too late. Linc is probably headed to meet me. He might be waiting already." I cut the radio and got out of the truck. "Did you want to come with?"

Roger didn't seem to understand, so I said: "You'd have to come as an Arcanine."

"Oh, sure. Sure. I feel so very much rested that I can _definitely_ do a few hours in that form." And: "That sounded like sarcasm, but it wasn't. Honest."

"You're explaining that to me tonight, by the way."

"Sarcasm?"

"No, the shifting."

He crossed his heart. "Scout's honor."

"You're not a scout. Are you even technically a boy..? "

"That's the point, Mary Mackle. I'm pledging to a code that would not have me. That's what makes it so honorable."

He hopped out of the truck and shrank before my eyes. I ran around to the passenger side door, and there he was: an Arcanine draped in human clothes. He shook out of them and trotted to the sidewalk.

We found Lincoln and Christy right where Linc said to meet them, at five, on the dot. Christy was out of her Team Aqua garb for the day. Meaning, she was in a teal sundress that hugged her hips, and her long legs ended in matching flats. Her hair was the kind of brunette that turned almost orange in the sun, and that didn't start to touch on her light freckles.

And there Lincoln was, hands on her hips, laughing with her at some strange in-joke. Are all in-jokes strange? I feel like that's inherent in the exclusivity of the term, but—

"Mary!" Christy called. I was snapped out of the monologue. "And a certain Arcanine. Fancy seeing you here." She knelt down to scratch the scruff under his neck.

Lincoln jumped to the chase. "What did the Pokemon Center have to say about him?"

How many lies was I going to tell in twenty-four hours?

"He's fine," I said. "He's a Wonder Trade from Kanto. No clue why someone would abandon him."

Roger flinched at the word 'abandon'. (I did think that was weird.)

Christy started fluffing out Roger's mane. "I have to say, I'm glad you took him in like this. Heath wanted to sell him, but—"

"Not that jagoff again," Lincoln said, and Christy immediately apologized, and even her apologies were tapered with a glow.

I was going to ask what they were talking about, but that could easily backfire. When one tells fibs, the less words one uses in the conversation, the better.

Christy tensed up. She gave Roger a final pat on the head, and gave Lincoln a cheek-smooch that even I thought was cold. "I'll see you soon?" She asked.

Any tension escaped Lincoln's notice. "I'll call you," he promised.

Christy started back toward the shops. She was walking pretty quickly, too.

Again, Lincoln remained oblivious. He took out the truck keys and jingled them. "Ready to go?"

I looked around Linc's feet. "Where are the groceries?"

"…Groceries?"

…

So. Buttonwillow take two.

Linc ran to get the stuff on Dad's list. I considered running into the Pokemon Center and getting Roger checked out, but didn't have a chance. Linc dragged me to the grocery store, then pulled me to the city center to register our farm for Mauville Gym affiliation.

Roger started looking antsy at one point. I worried that he might have to become human again, but luckily, all he needed was a light post that doubled as a bathroom.

We were on the road in twenty minutes, and I didn't even tell Lincoln that we passed Christy with her Team Aqua friends.

Fun fact: a bunch of people in blue bandanas are easy to miss when you've become used to them, no matter who they are.

…

It was dark when we finally got home. Lincoln led the way inside the house. "It's my fault we're late," he said. "Let me go ahead."

I never liked sending Linc to get an earful from my dad. It was equal parts not liking someone who wasn't family—well, blood-family—getting yelled at, and not wanting him to be yelled at, period. It was like shouting at a puppy.

We parked the truck in the carport and entered the house carefully.

"Mr. Mackle?" Linc called as he went to the kitchen, bag in one hand and Gym affiliation certificate in the other. "I'm sorry we got back later than usual. No excuse. I lost track of time."

I closed the front door behind me and Roger.

The quiet in our house was deafening.

I knew what that meant. Linc did, too: our eye contact said, _this one's up to you, Mary._

I went into the living room.

As I thought. Dad was passed out on the couch, his head hung back and over the cushion. Four cans of beer lay on the next cushion over, and one was still in his lap.

I pointed to the ground. Roger made a face, resenting to being treated like an actual Pokemon, but he stayed put all the same.

I stepped out of my shoes, and then I walked across the carpet and shook my dad awake.

"What? Jillian, is that you?"

"It's me, Dad."

Snoring: "Jill..?"

"Me, Dad. It's Mary." He blinked a few times, and finally the dark eyes we shared registered me, not my mother. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

"I'm fine," he slurred.

I took Dad's arm and tried to haul him up. He swatted me away. "I can stand, "he stammered. Dad took the beer from his lap and immediately dropped it. He swore.

"I've got it," Lincoln said. He swooped in like the guardian angel he was, dishtowel in hand, and began mopping up the beer before it seeped into the fabric.

Dad took a few quick steps toward the staircase before almost tumbling to his doom. I caught his arm and he didn't swat me away, this time.

I led him up the stairs, and then pushed us past his door into the master bedroom. He made his sheets every morning. They were impeccable.

"Do you need help taking your clothes off?" I asked.

Dad grumbled some form of "I'm fine", and he collapsed onto the mattress, face-first. Seconds later he was snoring.

I turned out the light, closed the door, and went to find Lincoln and Roger downstairs.

"I got the stain out of the carpet," Linc said. "Most of it, anyway. How is he?"

I pulled a glass from the cabinet and filled it with cold water from our filter. "Not as bad as I thought," I admitted. "He's been worse."

Lincoln lay the rug and beer can on the counter. "Mary, he's been doing this for—"

"He's been worse," I said again.

We stood there for a moment, blank. The only sounds were Roger's hard breathing, and the buzzing of the light bulb overhead.

"I think it was your brother," Lincoln finally said. He tapped a sheet of paper on the counter. I didn't look over to see it. "Maybe he was here. I don't know. If I had to guess what set your Dad off, it'd be that."

The grit in his voice meant he _hoped_ Kurt wasn't here.

"Anyway," he said.

I replied, "Anyway."

Lincoln waved, his hand limp this time, and excused himself. Sometimes I wondered if his loft above the garage was lonely.

Then I remembered the few times Christy spent the night and knew, it wasn't _too_ lonely.

I turned the overhead light off. The buzzing was gone, but the heavy breathing remained. I wasn't allowed to have Pokemon in my room. I guessed if Dad could go on benders, I could break a few rules, too.

"Come on," I told Roger.

I didn't flick the light on when we came to my bedroom. I switched into my pajamas. It was a strange feeling: I'd already seen _way_ too much of Roger, but I was paranoid that he would see too much of me.

Welp. It was my room, I got to set the standards.

I lay in bed and set my sights out the window, at the stars over the tall grass and out toward the sea.

"Mary?"

Roger, human for the night.

"Yeah?" I asked. Our voices at a whisper.

"I'm sorry about this," he said. "I left your blanket in the garage. I don't have anything to sleep on."

If it was okay for Dad to confuse me and my mom—and this was not the first time—then I guess…

"You can sleep in my bed," I said. "If you want."

Roger laughed one of those breathy laughs. "I might smell funny."

"Do your best not to," I said.

Roger didn't get into bed right away. He hesitated long enough to make me almost rethink my offer, but then the sheets were moving, and Roger was under them and his head of thick brown hair was poking into my vision.

I felt his toes on the back of my legs. He flinched. "Sorry," he said.

"Me, too."

I'll give Roger this: he knew when to be quiet.

I broke the silence. "It's not Dad's fault."

"Tonight?"

"All of it. It's not just Dad. It's Kurt. And Mom. And me, and maybe even Linc." I laughed. It made my chest hurt. "You came at a bad time, Mister Arcanine. Everyone's kind of lost."

My eyelids dropped like the anchors they were.

I was almost asleep when he said, barely audibly: "My family is lost, too."

(I knew this was strange. I did not care.)

* * *

Thanks for reading, and thanks double for reviewing. I'm trying a new voice and style; any feedback is wonderful.


	3. This world will surprise you

Mary, Meet Arcanine

…

Chapter 3 - "This world will surprise you, if you let it."

Roger was out of my room when the morning came. I was grateful for it. Dad lectured me over having an Arcanine in the room; imagine what would happen if he caught me sleeping beside a boy?

A completely-naked boy?

My hair stood on end. I totally slept next to a buck-naked boy.

And nothing had happened.

"Huh," I said to myself. Sleeping with someone was a surprisingly bland experience.

Or, sleeping _beside_ someone is. Semantics. Whatever.

No breakfast in the kitchen, this morning. Dad was huddled over a plate of bacon and eggs. Lincoln was still in the kitchen, but he was pouring over some important-looking documents.

"Morning," I said. I poured myself a bowl of Frosted Flakes.

"The Arcanine is outside. It seems your guest slept in your clothes," Dad said. His voice was groggy. Cracked, almost. "Why did you give him your comforter, too?"

"You said I couldn't have him sleep in my room," I started.

"I _meant_ to give him a Pokeball. Or use one of the spare blankets in the cabinet."

Dad reached for his coffee.

Hangover Dad isn't much fun.

"I hope you're going to feed him," Hangover Dad said. "I need you planting berries today. I was thinking the Arcanine would work better than giving you a repel or two."

Because Roger was so threatening.

I remembered how he ate the sandwich like I were going to take it away.

Dad: "Did I say something funny?"

I shook my head. I ate quickly, snatched two bagels from the bag on top of the fridge, and went for the garage.

As I left, Dad stood up and asked Lincoln something in a lower, even murkier grumble. I felt bad for making Linc deal with Hangover Dad, but he was the one getting paid to work here. He gets the worse jobs.

Not that cleaning your dad off of the couch isn't a difficult job.

Roger-in-Arcanine-form was waiting in the garage. He had jumped over the arena fence and was running laps. He kicked up a good little atmosphere.

"I brought some food," I told Roger. He perked up and sat on his hind legs.

"I brought you some people food," I added, holding up the bagels. I went into the Wonder Trade room and filled up a metal bowl with Pokemon chow.

I placed the bagels on a paper towel on the ground, and I placed the Pokemon chow beside it.

Roger tilted his head. He knew what I was doing.

He chose the Pokemon food. So he wasn't some strange in-between; while being a Pokemon, Roger physically _was_ an Arcanine. If he ate a bagel in this form, he would probably hurl it back up.

Roger licked the bowl clean. He looked up at me.

"Sorry. I can't give you more. It's all loaded with expensive proteins and science and stuff."

Roger stood up on all fours. He shook his body about, still watching me.

His eyes seemed deeper when he was an Arcanine.

"About last night," I began.

Hangover Dad, from inside: "Mary, get the clothes from the garage and start the laundry. We're already running behind schedule." And, stern: "I need you onboard today."

I groaned. Hangover Dad.

…

Lincoln drove Roger and me out to the coast. There was a trail that led halfway, but to get to the actual shoreline, you would have to walk for a good hour through tall grass, and then traverse a beach with the occasional Trainer.

We like to make fun of Trainers.

"There's one right there," I pointed out. Linc had to see him: his bag and his sleeping bag out, his stupid baseball hat flipped backward, his vest billowing, and—the kicker—one Pokeball in his hand, flipping around.

Lincoln tells me it's because they're waiting to find someone to battle.

"Good luck waiting, buddy," Linc said.

After a bit of off-road driving, and one swerve to avoid turning a Wurmple into roadkill, we came to the coast. I got out of the passenger side door with my backpack full of water and snacks and hand sanitizer and Roger clothes, and Roger hopped out beside me.

Lincoln held up two seed bags. "Pick a number between one and two."

"One point five."

"Which rounds up to two. Here." Linc tossed me the bag in his right hand. I read the label. Oran Berry seeds.

Lincoln revved the engine. "My PokeNav has a charge in it, right?"

"For the last time, yes."

"For the last time, I don't believe you."

I got lost out here, once, doing this exact chore. Panic Dad had thought I was dead. Linc had never lived it down.

I took the PokeNav from my backpack's front pouch and turned it on. Then I made the smarmiest face known to man.

"Sheesh, crucify me for trying to keep my friends alive," Linc replied. I pretended that being called his friend didn't cause five kinds of reactions, each more stomach-wrenching than the last.

He pulled the passenger-side door shut, and his hands gripped the wheel.

Me, completely off-book: "Linc, I'm sorry about leaving you with him today. And after last night…."

His hands _squeezed_. I saw the vein in his forearm, the one I daydream about running my fingers along until I can kiss where it meets its vein buddies in his wrist.

"Really, I am—"

"Mary, it's my job." His toothy smile was blinding. "I get paid to deal with him."

Hearing that out loud hurt my feelings. I couldn't pinpoint why, though.

"Get back safe, Mare-bear. I'm making pesto tonight."

"Pesto sauce…from the jar?"

"Ouch. I have a rough day ahead of me. Would it hurt you to lay off the insults?"

He pulled off the slowest, run-over-tall-grass-iest U-turn known to man, and then the truck was heading back to the farm.

As soon as I was sure Linc couldn't see us, and that he wasn't coming back, I led Roger to the bluffs. They weren't _bluff-_ bluffs—nobody would come out here, take a picture of the water hitting these rocks and put them on a postcard—but they were taller than Roger the Human.

I removed the tote bag with my sweats, a tank Kurt left in the laundry, mis-matched socks, and my spare sneakers from my backpack. Roger the Arcanine went behind one of the larger rocks, and I tossed the tote bag over. To give him some privacy, my attention belonged to the ocean for a moment.

"You're not going to say anything profound?" Roger asked behind me, when the moment was up.

"Why would I say something profound?"

"It's the ocean. It's what you're supposed to do."

I hooked my thumbs on my backpack straps. "It's the ocean, but it's not special. I do this every week or so, Roger. It's like being all philosophical about taking out the trash." Then: " _You_ say something philosophical."

"So dawn goes down to day. / Nothing gold can stay."

I glowered at Roger. "I bet you think you're funny."

He looked slightly less homeless, with clothes that actually belonged to people. He stretched his arms to the sky.

"I'm not funny. I simply think S.E. Hinton is a spectacular author."

I crammed the tote bag in my backpack and closed it. The water would be there forever; _we_ had a time limit.

"S.E. Hinton only used the poem in her first book," I said. "Robert Frost wrote it."

We were two steps into the tall grass, and already we were stopping. Roger was doubled over and laughing in conniptions.

"What are you—"

Roger, wiping away honest-to-God tears: "So instead of asking why I can _read_ , you're stopping to correct me on _The Outsiders_ trivia!" He snorted through his nose, and a wad of snot flew. "You are a _nerd_ , Mary Mackle."

I ignored the warmth spreading over my face.

"I am not," I said. "I like reading, is all."

"Oh, sure. Come on, you're that girl who sits with her English teacher during lunch, right? You guys have a goldfish named Rumble Fish, and it's your responsibility to feed it, but somehow it's the class pet."

"I…No."

"No to the pet fish?"

My voice low: "Can we not go into this?"

For someone who's a Pokemon half of the time, Roger can be very perceptive. He put his hands in his pockets and breathed deeply, then: "Lead the way, Miss Mary."

"Just Mary," I told him.

Ten seconds later.

"Miss Mary?"

" _Just Mary._ "

"Where are we even going?"

I held the PokeNav out to him. A sudden breeze pushed my arm into his. "This is a map of this whole route," I said. "The red things are Mackle Farms property. We plant berries there."

"Good berries?"

"I don't know. I've never eaten one. We send them back with the Wonder Trades we get."

"Mary, your apathy never ceases to amaze."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked. Roger shrugged.

I didn't need the PokeNav to lead us to the first few berry patches. They were clearly marked; the first time we did this, Kurt and I wrote out signs and dug them into the soft soil. Roger and I came to a raise in the path, and I could see two of the berry patches just by shielding my face from the sun.

Roger followed me quietly, and I wondered if he forgot that he was human and could talk, if he wanted.

I asked as much, and he told me this: "Sometimes, you appreciate quiet the most when it's hardest to protect it."

"Whoa. What cereal box did you read that off of?"

Roger sneered.

We had come to the first patch of soil. It was a plot of brown dirt about the size of the throw rug in my bedroom. The two-by-four with my hand-drawn sign—'Mackle Farms, Don't Touch Unless You Like Hurt!'—was slightly off tilt, and I adjusted it. Then I got to my knees, took out the garden shovel I brought from the garage, and began to dig.

I planted two Oran Berry seeds, and I shook out my digging hand.

"I was born this way," Roger said. He was standing and I wasn't; his expression was a mystery. "I've been a shifter as long as I can remember."

"A shifter," I repeated, digging my finger into the seed bag. "I thought you were called Pokemorphs, or something like that?"

"Pokemorph, Moemon, it's all the same. It's just a term for a Pokemon that's not quite human."

"So you think of yourself more as a Pokemon than a human?"

Roger laughed. "That was quick. I was waiting for some shock-and-awe."

I finished planting the last seed. I stood up and clapped the dirt from my hands, brushed the brown from my jeans.

"I'm not the shock-and-awe type," I said. I put my bag back on, and used the PokeNav to point us to the next destination. I squinted my eyes and found the sign on the horizon.

"You really should be," Roger said. He skipped in front of me, and I worried he would become an Arcanine and ruin those clothes. "Let me tell you, Mary. This world will surprise you, if you let it."

"So says the shifter."

"So says the shifter," he repeated.

…

Roger was more talkative on the walk to the next berry patch.

The limits of Roger's abilities were as follows.

"I have to spend as much time as an Arcanine as I do as, well, this," he said, gesturing to his lean body. "I'm half-one, half-the-othe,r but I get to choose how I spend my time."

I lifted my foot to avoid stepping in a pile of sleeping Zigzagoon. "Is that why you became a boy again in my room?" And when he seemed confused: "You just kind of woke up as a boy yesterday. Does that happen normally, you jolt into another shape?"

Roger gave a loud 'hmmmm', then: "It's not supposed to. It's a bit like having to go to the bathroom, but holding it for a long time, and then it sort of comes out…"

"Roger, that's gross."

"It's the principle of the thing, though! It's forcing your body to do something when it needs to do something else. It's saving up time as a human so I can be a Pokemon when I need to, and saving up time as a Pokemon to be a human if I have to. Equal time spent between the two, get it?"

It sounded profound.

Probably more profound than my ambivalent "Interesting…" had led on. But that was my reaction.

We had to cut past the beaten trail to save time coming up on the next berry patch; I knew we were closer now, but I could barely see mine and Kurt's sign over the tall grass. This one was even more beaten-up-looking than its sad brother: the wood had started to rot at the base, and the sign had bite marks along the side.

"Some Pokemon must have been pretty hungry," I said. I set to digging holes and planting Oran Berries in the soil again. "Roger, I have a question."

"I'm not surprised."

"Why are you telling me all of this?"

He started walking around in the grass, and from the sound of things, deliberately stepping on patches of brown, crinkly dead foliage. The noise is always so strangely pleasant, you know?

"I don't know," he finally said, and I complained, "That's not an answer!"

I finished planting and stood up, balancing my hands on my knees and bouncing to full height. The first time I did that, I wondered if anyone was watching my extended behind. Then I remembered: _middle of nowhere, Mary._

Roger: "It's the truth, though."

"Why, is my amazing life too terrifying for your mortal little girl mind to comprehend?" He gave a sly grin.

"Well, if it's anything like the smell, then yes, I _am_ horrified."

" _Hey._ "

I took the PokeNav out again. This last one was tricky. Kurt and I didn't set it like the other soil patches, because Mom and Dad had taken over. Kurt and I were little kids at the time, and I remembered that it's a bit of a walk, and you end up at the coast. Usually, Dad sent Lincoln out these days.

I didn't want to go to it. It was enough dealing with something from Kurt and myself. Mom was the icing on the hell-cake of my life.

But if it was between that and Hangover Dad…

"This way," I said, holding the PokeNav out and following the on-screen arrow.

We were a good ways into the shore by now, and so the PokeNav guided us back to the water. Once the hint of blue was on the horizon, it was an immediate turn North, as I remembered. Another set of cliffs were in our future.

"It's a really big secret, though," I said to Roger. "Being a shifter. The whole existence _of_ shifters. Doesn't telling me break some great pact of the legendary Pokemon or something?"

"It would, if that pact existed. Honestly, Mary." He _tsk-tsk_ 'd at me. "And I'm very positive that you're not the first human to know about us. If you were, I would be _stunned._ "

"Would it count as a world-surprising event?"

Roger sighed loudly. Either I was annoying him, tiring him out, or he was actually amused by our exchanges.

"Here's trouble," I said. We were at the cliffs. The smooth, baked rock soared fifteen feet up, surrounded by jagged edges and broken stone shards. The sun and directly overhead now, but I would have killed for the shade from this thing. "Think you can climb with me?"

"I am _offended_."

"What, did you smell yourself too?"

Roger sneered, and I apologized. "Low blow," I said.

Roger continued: "I have lived eighteen years on this world, as both man and Pokeman—Pokemon, oops—and—"

"Pokeman?"

"—And I have made more than my fair number of close calls and escapes. I can climb, Mary. Can _you_ climb?"

…He could have said 'yes' instead.

We felt our way up the jagged edges. From there it was a strange climb along the main cliff side itself, where we had to hug the rock surface and shimmy up to the plateau surface. It was smart that Dad threw us out of the house when he did; it was only getting hot now, and that meant the sun hadn't cooked the rock to supernova-levels.

The ocean view hit both of us when we got to the top. The salt buffeted our faces, and the crashing waves below spat dribbles of sea water at my glasses frames, and it all felt beautiful.

Roger: "So dawn goes down to day…"

Me: " _Shut it._ "

He noticed the small planter box at the very edge. "It doesn't have a sign," he said.

"As far as I'm concerned, if someone gets all the way up here and takes our berries, they get to keep them."

I knelt down and set the PokeNav beside my bag. The garden shovel found its way into my sore grip, and I was digging through dirt again.

Roger, incredulous: "So, what was the appeal with putting dirt up here? I mean, what with the dirt shortage."

"My parents loved this spot." I rushed the first half of that sentence. "I don't blame them. It's lovely here. It's a pain to get to, is all."

"I can't argue with that," Roger said. "In my experience, everything beautiful tends to be a pain."

I stopped planting. "I feel like there's a story behind that."

"There is. Ask me if you're going to ever hear it."

I resumed planting.

"I might not have said 'no," Roger taunted.

I finished the last seed and let the garden shovel rest next to the PokeNav. I stood up and did what any sane person with a Hangover Dad and a Dead Mom and a Crazy Gangster Brother would do.

I watched the ocean.

Roger caught me doing it, but I said, "Everyone's entitled to ennui."

"That's a big word, English student."

"Don't call me that."

"Fine, Mary Mackle."

I threw my head back and groaned. My stomach decided to make the same sound and, embarrassed, I held my hands over my gut.

"Homeward bound?" Roger asked me.

"Most definitely," I said, though I said it lazily enough to show that I was in _no_ hurry. The fact that Linc hadn't called me on his PokeNav to say Dad was back to himself meant that Linc was being forced to do ridiculous busy-work, which only happened when Dad was _not_ back to himself.

I reached down to get the PokeNav.

Now, I am not a clumsy person. I am not an idiot (though in ten years, my decision concerning school might turn me into one). However, when this happened, I _was_ more than exhausted with my family, and so that energy translated to my foot scuffing the wrong rock, my hand missing its target, and hitting the garden shovel, knocking my PokeNav off of the rock.

My heart stopped in my chest. The device made a terrifying 'thump' sound against the hard sand.

Roger was content to watch like the bystander he was, but that was Lincoln's PokeNav.

I straight-up jumped off of the rock. I landed worse than I could have and took a tumble. My arms scraped against the sand. One of my knees tore through my work jeans. Whatever. I snatched the PokeNav up.

The screen was entirely blank.

I pressed the power button.

I closed it and turned it back on.

I opened the battery pack, popped out the cartridge, and popped it back in.

Nothing.

I held the power button for a good minute, praying to God or Arceus or my mother, and the screen blinked—Yay!—but it displayed a spinning Pokeball logo. After a moment, a new message: 'unable to connect'. Then it shut off again.

Roger had finished climbing down the rock and stood over us—myself and the damaged goods—so his shadow blocked out the sun. "I got your stuff," he said quietly, holding up my backpack and the garden shovel.

I was quiet.

"I'm sorry about your doohickey," Roger said.

"It's not mine," I told him.

Roger sat beside me.

"Linc's had this since he started working for us," I said. "And I broke it."

I was on my haunches; I fell back onto my stupid fat butt, and this time, I watched the water hoping it would take me away.

"Mary Mackle?"

"Can I help you?" I responded drolly.

"You had the map to go home on there, right?"

"Even if I knew the way, we can't go through the tall grass in about an hour or so. I was supposed to call Linc to pick us up. There are some pretty nasty Pokemon out there."

"I can get nasty," Roger said, almost like a suggestion.

I cradled the deceased PokeNav. What was it with me and dead things?

"I have an idea," he said. Roger stood up, and I didn't crane my head to watch him, so his shirt falling to my side was a surprise. "Stay here for a minute." His pants and underwear joined the pile, and a brilliant Arcanine flashed off toward the coast.

He ran as far to the water as he could. Roger steeled himself on all fours, his head turned up to the sun—

He _roared_.

Nothing happened. Nothing at first.

I saw them coming up over the bluffs where we started this busted early-morning escapade. Dots, at first, and only three. Four, and five, and suddenly a whole posse. They flew over the water and came closer and closer, and finally to the shoreline.

"That's a lot of Wingull," I said.

Roger didn't roar again. He barked—People in the cities think Pokemon say their names, but really, that's just childlike—and the Wingull flew above him in a gentle circle. They weren't going to eat him; they moved so slowly, and they were cooing so gently, that I figured the Wingull wanted to adopt Roger or something.

Imagine my surprise when the swarm came at me next. I got to my feet and contemplated running, but it was too late. I stayed in perfect position and the Wingull flew down toward me. My clothes buffeted every which way. My braids went at perfect lines by my head. Feathers ruffled my nose, and I did my damndest not to sneeze.

Once they were done with whatever they were doing, the Wingull took off again. They ascended until they were dots in the air again. But they did not return to the water.

"Our guides," Roger said. I found him beside me, human again, his pants and shirt sloppily put on. His hair was even messier than usual. "I asked if they could keep any nasty Pokemon out of our way."

"Wow," I awed. "That's so nice of them."

"That's the way Pokemon are. We help each other. It's something of a lost art with humans." Roger stretched his arms. "Plus, I _am_ an unofficial Legendary. There's a food chain."

"But you're a Fire Pokemon. They could wreck you."

Roger put a finger to my lips. " _They_ don't know that," he said.

I felt that finger brush my lips on the entire walk home.

…

It was pretty late when we finally got back. The sun was already setting, and the entire walk, Roger and I heard angry-sounding rustling in the grass around us. The Wingull must have had some intense influence to keep us safe the entire time. Either that, or they knew not to mess with a Pokemon shifter and the overweight high school dropout housing him.

Hm.

"Roger?" I asked.

"I know, I know," he said. The house was in sight. "I'll switch back. I need to thank the Wingull anyway."

"It's not that," I said. Although that was thoughtful of him. "How long…Wow. There's no way to ask this without being rude, is there?"

"You're not a rude kid, Mary Mackle."

"Come _on_."

"You're sarcastic, but you're actually sweet, deep down." His eyes scanned my face. "Probably deeper down than you'd want to look."

Was that a compliment..?

Roger twirled a finger between us. It took me a minute to get that one. He was stripping again.

"I know I'm imposing on your family," Roger said, his words muffling the sound of clothes hitting the ground. "I won't stay for more than another day or two."

A day or two. That was it?

I felt a pressure in my chest.

"That's not a problem," I told him. "I…what are you waiting for?"

He didn't answer.

"Roger?"

The roar, again. I gathered up his clothes as Roger howled to the Wingull in the sky. I put the clothes in my backpack, and Roger nudged his head against my kneecap.

This felt so stupid, but—

"Thank you!" I said, waving my arms at the flock above us.

They hovered, long enough for me to wonder if they would give a Pokemon 'you're welcome', but they went back the way we came, gesture-free.

Roger and I started walking toward the house. I kept the broken PokeNav in my bag. Dad would rip my head off for being so late; the last thing I needed was to piss off Linc, too.

There were lights on the other side of the house. "Strange," I told myself. "It's not that late yet."

They weren't normal lights. Or even our lights.

Red and blue police lights were in front of our house.

I took off running, Roger the Arcanine at my heels.

* * *

Thanks for reading along, out there. Life is moving, so I'm not going to be able to update this quickly. That's the sprit of slice-of-life, I guess. Thanks double for reviewing!


	4. I don't believe in fate

Mary, Meet Arcanine

…

Chapter 4 – "I don't believe in fate."

The police car lights clicked off in the time it took Roger and I to run to the front of the house. That was good news, right? The police couldn't have been here very long, then.

I bounded around to the front porch and pushed my way through the screen door. "Dad?" I yelled. "Lincoln?"

Hanging in my throat: Kurt?

"We're in the dining room," Dad called back, referring to the table by the kitchen. I always laughed at the 'dining room', as if it were glamorous or something.

I walked down the hallway toward the kitchen, preparing myself for what I might see. I hooked my hands on my backpack straps.

One at a time: Lincoln standing against the kitchen counter, arms folded. Dad seated at the table, fingers crossed and his posture perfect. Across from him, a figure in the blue uniform. I came into the kitchen proper, and I recognized the officer instantly. I had seen him almost every week in the last year alone.

"Hi," I weakly said to Nimona's father, Mr. Wallach. "Is everything…?"

"Everything's fine, Mary," Dad said curtly.

Mr. Wallach regarded me with the same warm smile from those Friday-night sleepovers. It was gone as quickly as it had come. "I might need to ask her Mary questions, Wilson. I know it's inconvenient—"

"The hell it is. It's _rude_."

Mr. Wallach held up a hand to calm Dad. "Wilson, I—"

"You come in here, with your badge and your car and this _felon_ , and somehow I'm supposed to hand my son over to you on _heresay_. Listen. Listen _hard._ "

Hangover Dad was testing Mr. Wallach's patience. (You didn't need me to tell you that.)

"I do not know where my son is," Dad said, with the cadence of a war drum. "Kurt hasn't been home since March, if that. And Officer Wallach, _if_ Kurt thinks he can march back in here, he has another thing coming. But I know he won't, because unlike you and _your_ people," Dad jabbed a finger, but not at Mr. Wallach, "He's not an idiot."

The voice I didn't recognize: "I would watch your tone, Mr. Mackle. We don't want to get off on the wrong foot."

I nudged myself further into the kitchen. I opened the cabinet and got a glass of water, then started filling it at the filtered tap by the sink faucet. I glanced over at the action as casually as I could.

The voice belonged to a man larger than my father, with muscles on his arms and in his chest that could break Lincoln in two. He wore a black tank top, and his tan skin stretched over the bulging hulk of him, just like his one tattoo of an anchor on his right bicep. He had a gorilla's jaw, the kind that jutted out and, if he fell face down, would be the first thing to hit the floor. His black hair was spiked into a perfectly geometric cowlick. It was almost like he had a jet-black triangle impaled into him.

It was the man's stare that horrified me, though.

My father was, and is, a kind man. When kind people are angered, situations get uncomfortable. It was why Lincoln stood stoic when he was usually so warm, and why Mr. Wallach had to pretend he didn't drive me back and forth to his home, just like my dad did for Nimona. My dad had a very short fuse.

This stranger in my house? The one sucking a tooth?

He couldn't care less.

Anyone who can see a kind man in a kind, run-of-the-mill family be angered and _not_ react is either insane, or dangerous.

"Right, you," Dad spat. "Heathcliff, right?"

"Heath," he corrected. "I prefer Heath."

"I don't give a rat's ass what you _prefer_ , Heath. I already let you take my son from me. What else do I have?"

Mr. Wallach stood up and rapped the table with his knuckles. "That's enough here," he said. There was a smartphone at his end of the table; he tapped it and stopped it from recording anything more.

Dad opened his hands. Pleading, now. "What else do I have?"

Mr. Wallach sucked in a breath. "I should have enough to go on," he said. "Nobody in Buttonwillow has seen Kurt since Heath reported him missing. You should thank him for that, Wilson. Who knows how long your boy might have been out on the streets otherwise?"

Dad was silent.

"Between that and your words here, it means Kurt likely took off toward Mauville. If the meteorite is worth as much as Heath's people say, then the next step is alerting Slateport and Lillycove to be on high security. Same for toll roads and vehicle rentals."

"My son is no criminal," Dad said.

Mr. Wallach did not contradict him. Heath pushed himself out of his chair and stood. He was surprisingly short. He came up to Linc's head, and Dad's collarbone.

"I'll see what I can do," Mr. Wallach said. And finding me with my un-drank glass of lukewarm water: "I'm sorry about your brother, Mary. I will do what I can."

I nodded. It was an involuntary motion.

"If you have any questions, Wilson," Mr. Wallach said. He let it trail off.

Dad: "I have one. What does this Team Aqua trash _have_ on you?"

Heath took exactly one step toward my father. Mr. Wallach's hand was a whip: it raced across Heath's body and locked at his defined shoulder. This didn't stop him. Heath allowed himself to be stopped.

Either Dad knew the kind of man he was dealing with, or he didn't care. Either way, he let the situation diffuse.

Mr. Wallach led Heath out and back to the police cruiser outside. Mr. Wallach got in and started typing on that weird on-board computer thing.

Heath opened his passenger-side door. I made the idiot mistake of staying in the kitchen, which is in complete line of sight to the porch. Roger was still at my knee. He had never moved.

"That's an interesting Pokemon," Heath called out. "An Arcanine, right?"

I didn't say a thing.

The funny part was, Heath didn't say something to get me talking the way most guests do.

Heath was waiting for me to answer the question. He was in command, even though he was on another man's property.

"Yes, it is," Lincoln said, coming to my rescue. "Christy brought it to us. She said it was safer with us, instead of on the streets with your Aqua grunts."

"Christy, huh?" Heath asked. "She's a good girl. Fine girl." He smiled a knowing, devilish smile.

Then he got in the cruiser, and they were gone.

None of us moved. Roger and I watched the cruiser drive down the long road until it became a blip in the distance, and then it made the left turn back to Buttonwillow.

I finally closed the door. Lincoln and Roger did not move, but they started breathing once the metal lock clicked into place.

"What was that all about?" I asked.

"I told him," Dad started. "I told that jackass boy not to come back here. But he did it anyway, and this is _exactly_ what I told him would happen. Police in my house. Damnit." He shoulder-checked poor Linc on the way to the fridge. Dad opened the orange juice and drank directly from the carton.

" _Damnit_."

And then, throwing the carton against the wall where it exploded into an orange flying volcano: "God _damnit!_ "

The explosion was deafening and I yelled out. Dad noticed me now, for sure. His entire forehead wrinkled in concentrated anger. "Where in the _hell_ have you been? I sent you out _hours_ ago."

"I got stuck—"

"How in the bloody hell do you get stuck? You _live here_ , Mary! What were you and that mutt doing, cramming each others' thumbs in your assholes?" And when I didn't say anything: "I asked you a _question!"_

"I—"

"Christ, you know what? I don't want to hear it. Hobble your fat ass in the garage. There are Pokeballs that need scrubbing."

Lincoln the White Knight: "Mr. Mackle, Mary didn't do—"

My dad whipped around so fast, it made my eyes sore. "Listen, you shithead. If you want to work one more day in my house, you'll keep that pretty face of yours quiet before I knock it off. I swear to _God._ " He waited for a comeback that didn't arrive. Lincoln was silent, and Dad, victorious: "That's what I thought. Get back to work."

I went out the front door and back the way I had ran.

Or, more accurately, I escaped through the front door.

I made it halfway to the garage and my calf muscles gave out, and I sank to my knees.

I was exhausted from the walking earlier, and then this happened. What did Kurt do?

It was actually a good day before any of this.

What did Kurt even _do?_

I sat beside the tall grass and Roger waited with me, staying in his Arcanine form and resting quietly. I don't know how long I was there, but I heard the front door slam, and I felt the urge to start running again, in case Dad saw me sitting here.

He didn't come my way. Dad went in the truck and drove off.

I finally made it to the garage, once I was sure Dad wasn't turning right back around to see me outside and not working.

I went to the garage and did as I was told. Mary Mackle was not known for rocking the boat.

…

I mustered the energy—strength? Courage?—to go back inside the house well after the sun had gone down. The kitchen clock said it was almost ten at night. The orange juice incident was cleaned up and all evidence had been removed.

The one lone light in the house came from the living room. Lincoln was sitting in our L-shaped sofa, his feet up and his legs supporting his plate of spaghetti. Some weird grown-up Cartoon Network cartoon was playing.

"Mary! There you are," Linc said. He smiled when he saw me. "I saved some pasta for you in the fridge. I know you like the pesto, so I left that for you, too. This is just fried whatever," Linc said, gesturing to the loaded plate.

"Thanks," I said. I meant to thank him for cleaning up the orange juice.

I think he took it as thanks for something else, though: "Your dad is…I guess I look at your dad, and the term 'mid-life crisis' comes to mind? He was taking it out on you. He takes things out on you." Linc sighed. "That isn't okay."

"I didn't need you to stand up for me," I said.

"It still felt right, though," Linc said easily. He turned the TV volume down with our remote and scooted over. I took fifteen seconds to mix cold pasta with colder pesto sauce, and then I joined him.

Roger was probably still outside. I didn't know. He would show up when he needed food.

"Last night," Lincoln started. "Kurt came home when nobody was around. Your Dad took some of the Wonder Trade Pokemon on a jog around the farm area. Kurt walked right in and left that paper you saw. Did you read it?"

I shook my head.

"Kurt stole something from Team Aqua and ran off. Heath—he's the Team Aqua boss, Christy's scared of him but I think he's a complete tool—Heath thinks Kurt took it. It's worth millions, or something bogus like that. It didn't help that Kurt's been missing for a week now. Same as the meteorite."

"Meteorite? Kurt stole a _meteorite?_ "

Lincoln laughed his golden boy laugh, and the house echoed it for me. "To be fair, Team Aqua stole it first. The story went, Team Magma put the meteorite in their volcano machine or whatever, and Team Aqua went up there to steal it.

"Brendan wrecked their stuff then, and he wrecked them after that, in the Rayquaza Incident. Heath, knowing his sad gang of schmoes isn't going to last without a leader, he goes all the way back up there and gets the meteorite. He's been using it as collateral for a while. It's how he runs Buttonwillow."

I closed my jaw. "How did you know all that?"

"I'm not supposed to. It pays to date a Team Aqua member, believe it or not."

I noticed how my body was curled up and facing his. I also noticed how quiet it was in this house, for everything but some 'Adventure Time' repeat humming along.

Linc's eyes scanned my face, the way every girl hopes the boy she likes scans her face in a dark room.

"I broke your PokeNav," I blurted.

"I doubt that. I've dropped it down stairs before."

"No, I mean, I _really_ broke it. I'll show you, watch." I started to move, but Roger the Arcanine was already there with my backpack.

…Meaning Roger knew that I was enjoying quality Lincoln time.

Stupid shifter Pokemon.

Anyway. I fished the dead and gone PokeNav out and handed it to Linc. Our fingers did not touch.

"It keeps blinking like that," I said.

"That's not because it's broken, Mare-bear. You dropped it, huh?"

I nodded.

"You hurt the internal memory, is all. I need to connect it to my computer to re-sync the firmware."

"I completely understand what all of that meant."

Linc put his plate down on the floor. Roger ate it before Linc could offer, but Lincoln didn't seem to mind. "I'll show you," he said. "Come on."

Darkness, my old friend, please hide my tomato face.

"Come to…your…room?"

"Duh. Where else?"

…

I've told you before that Lincoln lives in the space above our garage, I think.

When Mom and Dad were renovating the garage to become our Wonder Trade / Pokemon chow / Mini-arena hub thing, they had to install all of this plumbing and wiring. The upstairs studio area already had a bathroom when we moved in. All Linc had to do was bring some furniture in the truck from his home, and voila: the studio became his live-in apartment for this job.

I always imagined it would be rustic. Living in the wilderness was for Trainers, not Breeders like myself, and I figured living in anything _but_ a house or apartment was barely above wilderness.

I climbed up the outside garage staircase to Lincoln's front door and followed him inside. (Roger did not come with.)

"Take off your shoes," Linc said. "I'm kind of around dirt all day. Can't blame a guy for wanting some clean space, can you?"

Lincoln was dirty? Ever?

I slipped out of my sandals and craned my head up at the tall ceiling. Mom and Dad had stained the walls with that shiny paint stuff, so the wood reflected Linc's bright, off-blue lightbulb.

"It's a daylight bulb," Lincoln said. And: "I bet you think it's weird, huh?"

"Never," I said a bit too earnestly.

This was a studio apartment, essentially: a large flat space, with a kitchenette off to one corner, and the bathroom and closet as the only blocked-off spaces. Lincoln had made a few trips in the first week with us, and so there was more furniture in the apartment than I expected. He had a full-size bed on a metal frame, a bookshelf with a few stacks of worn paperbacks, a throw rug in the middle of the floor, some chairs around a plastic table, and a tearing leather sofa. I noticed no television.

I gestured to the poster of Pokemon Master Red on the wall. "I like your decorations." That was the best I could do?

Linc opened his mini-fridge and produced a few cans of Dr. Pepper. He passed me on the way to his desk, so he pressed one of the cans into my hands.

His computer desk was a bit of a mess. He had wires, computer boards, multiple keyboards all around one monitor half the size of our TV. I noticed a game controller in the mess. I also noticed a few action figures, and I did not mention them.

Or should I have?

Was Lincoln one of those guys who was embarrassed of his hobbies, or did he like girls who shared them with him?

GAH! The indecision!

"There we go," Linc said. He plugged the PokeNav into a dock-looking-thing, and it made a pleasant chime sound. "It'll take the night to talk to space and update, but then it'll be right as rain."

"Talk to space?"

"Satellites."

"Oh. _Oh._ Right." When did my feet cross like that?

God, or Arceus or whichever, please get me out of this room before my heart explodes.

Linc stretched his arms and clapped his hands on his thighs. "You've never been in here before," he realized. "Sit wherever you like. It's basically exactly the mess you think it is."

 _He was inviting me to stay!_

Linc touched a few buttons on his apparently-touch-screen computer monitor. Music came from that corner of the room. It was some light electronic music, but I didn't recognize the language. Note to self: Lincoln likes weird music. Research weird music to talk about it with him later.

He opened his can of soda slowly. Then he stood up, bent backwards a bit, and sat with his back leaning against the wall. I joined him on the floor, leaning myself against his sofa. One of my hands absently started to peel at the breaking leather.

I waited patiently.

"I want to ask you something," he said. "It's been on my mind for a while. I just couldn't find the chance to tell you."

Lincoln bent one knee upward and picked at the denim. Then he was staring into my soul.

"Mary, I—"

"Yes, Lincoln?"

"I think I'm going to leave here soon." He breathed. "I'm thinking about quitting."

 _Ooooohhhh, no._

"Dad had a bad day," I raced. "B-but you know him, though. He's not always like that. Dad only ever drinks when Kurt—"

"Your dad is a character," Lincoln interrupted. "But I wouldn't judge him like that. I'm not a part of your family, and I don't have the right to judge any of you. That includes Kurt, even."

"It shouldn't," I said honestly, at which point I called my brother the foulest word in the English epithet.

It made Lincoln laugh. And that made me laugh, too.

But then, Linc: "Christy won't leave Team Aqua."

…So that's what this was about.

"You saw Heath today, Mare. He owns Buttonwillow, and he thinks he owns Mauville City, but he's a small-time punk literally everywhere else in the world," Lincoln said. "Christy doesn't see how dangerous Heath is. I mean, _sure_ , she knew that if she left a Fire Pokemon like your Arcanine on the streets, Heath would have it shipped off and made into a fur coat or something—"

"He's not _mine_ ," I said reflexively. But: "That's…that's why she brought Roger here?"

Lincoln laughed a deep, almost-man's laugh. "That's what you named him? _Roger?_ "

I played it cool. "It's one step above 'Fido.'"

"I like it." And back on topic: "I can't convince Christy to leave, and that's fine. That means there's only one thing that would get her to get out of Buttonwillow."

"What?"

"Me," he said meekly. "If I leave and she follows me, to Mauville or Slateport City or even as far as Lavaridge Town, it'll be a place where Heath has _zero_ influence. She'll be free." And: "We'll be free from him, Mary."

Me, saying out loud what should have been a thought: "What happens if you leave, and Christy doesn't—"

He jumped up. Like, literally, one second Lincoln was sitting with a leg sprawled out, and the next, he was bouncing on the balls of his feet, arms out. "And it's not just Heath. It's this entire _nowhere place_. I am _not_ going to live my life afraid because my girlfriend pisses off a gangster. Not when there are so many more countries and people and Pokemon and, just, _things_ to experience! It's a world out there, Mary." He calmed down. "There's a whole world waiting for us."

I liked everything he said. Really, I did.

I am not a good liar, though. Not when it came to myself or what I felt.

So, I was quiet. Against all reason, I was quiet.

Linc glanced out of his window. "Your dad's not back yet," he said. It was getting late, too. My eyelids were droopy. "Did you want me to sleep in the house tonight?"

"I'm only two years younger than you, Linc. I'm not afraid of sleeping in an empty house. I have Roger, anyway."

"I know, I know," Linc said. He put his hands on his hips and watched me, the way brothers watch their siblings. (I rejected that metaphor, because there was _no way_ it related to my current situation, _it did not_.) "It felt right to offer."

That's what he said about standing up to my father for me. I stood up. "Do you always do what feels right? It seems dangerous."

"Not at all. If you ask me, it's more dangerous to start something that you know feels wrong. Even if you want it more than anything."

Wrong like wanting someone who loved someone else so deeply, he would remove himself from her life to make her follow, for her benefit.

Oh, Linc.

…

Roger was a human when I made it inside. He was eating the rest of my pesto pasta and wearing the clothes from the beach. He looked up from his plate, and his eyes went wide as saucers.

"Don't worry about it," I said, defeated. "It's only me."

I went to my room. I heard the water run in the kitchen, and then a pair of footsteps following me. Roger knew how to wash up after himself. That was polite.

I didn't bother getting into my pajamas tonight. I took off my glasses and shirt and my pants and my bra and I fell under the covers.

The bra on the floor stopped Roger from jumping in beside me, and I knew it.

For an instant, I was cruel.

Wasn't it nice to control someone who loved you?

Control, the way Lincoln planned to leverage his very presence against Christy and Heath? The way my dad could ruin a perfect day?

…But if Lincoln's plan didn't work, he would lose Christy. And me, because he would be gone.

My dad wasn't the man he used to be. With Mom, Dad would _maybe_ raise his voice. And the longer he goes on acting the way he does, the more this home will change from what it was.

If I forced Roger to sleep on the floor as an Arcanine, what would I lose? What was I afraid of losing?

"Come in," I said. "Keep your hands to yourself, though."

"I am a gentleman." Roger shut the door behind him and took of my clothes. His clothes, I mean. My clothes that were on his body. Then he crawled into bed beside me.

Well.

Three nights in, and my worn and flimsy and stretched-out panties were the only garment separating my adolescent girl body from an adolescent boy one.

"The South Nation of Roger might have difficulty with this," Roger said. "But luckily, they do not have voting power in the larger Republic."

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," Roger said too quickly. His right hand rested above the duvet and by his crotch.

I was still facing Roger. I wanted to turn away and face the stars, like I always did. They comforted me, and I had no idea why. Maybe Mom read me books about space when I was young. Whatever.

I couldn't turn over, and I didn't know why because my body still worked, and I wanted to be calm about that and about Dad being out at that same bar he always goes to in Buttonwillow when he gets like this, and how Lincoln was going to leave with Christy, who was sweet and kind and deserved him more than a fat mess like me ever did—

"Holy hell," Roger said. "Hey. Hey, hey, hey. Hey."

"What?"

"You're crying."

"I am aware of that, Roger. Thank you _so_ much." Again with the cruelty.

Roger brushed the back of his finger across one of my eyes to knock the tears away. More came to replace them.

"Did you want me to get out?" He asked. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"It's not you. It's everything else, but it's not you."

In a busted way, Roger was the only thing making any kind of sense around here.

I closed my eyes and let my lungs and my eyes peter themselves out. There was warmth on my cheek—Roger's hand—and he brushed my tears away again, and again.

"I have an idea," he said.

Oh, _god._ "Roger," I wailed.

"It's nothing heinous. I told you, I am a gentleman."

"You're an eighteen-year-old boy. I'm a drop-out, not an idiot."

His hand stopped. And then it started to move away.

My own hand raced and locked his over my chubby cheek, and my eyes flipped open and bored into Roger, who still lay there and filled my vision with him.

"I'm sorry," I said. "That was mean."

"It was," he said. Then: "I can't stay here forever, Mary. I have to find my family. They're in danger without me."

My heart flew up in my throat.

"But today, I think our paths crossed more than I meant for them to. Fate and all that."

"I don't believe in fate," I sniffled.

"You should. You're an English student." And before I could counter with being a nothing-student: "I have to find the meteorite that guy thinks your brother stole. I know for a fact that Kurt does not have it, and he did not steal it."

I ruined the moment—oh hell, that was a moment, wasn't it?—and sat up. No worries: I remembered to hold the duvet over my chest. "How do you know he didn't…?"

"I know because I'm an almost-Legendary shifter. It's my job to know." He was serious. In a way I had never seen him be. "I think I can find it, and I know a few people who can lead me to it. But if I go by myself, I will keep the meteorite."

He sat up, too.

"It belongs to the Pokemon World, Mary. I'll be keeping it once I find it."

"What does it do?"

"Nothing important," Roger said with a shrug. "Do you know why I'm telling you this?"

I shook my head. It felt obvious, but I was too tired to compute.

"If you come with me, I will let you use the meteorite to clear Kurt's name." But: "Then I'll have to steal it back, but that's not your problem. Come with me on this quest, or journey, or adventure or what have you."

"Okay," I said, as tentatively as tentative can be. I stuck my gaze on my glasses, on the dresser where I tossed them, so Roger couldn't see my hesitation in the darkness. "What did you have in mind?"

"Tomorrow, we set out for Littleroot Town."

" _Littleroot Town?!_ " I slammed my palms on the bed. The duvet almost revealed too much of me and I pushed it back. "That's a week's drive! Are you _nuts?_ How am I supposed to get that much time—"

"You aren't," Roger said. "You leave. That's all."

"I leave," I said, not watching him again. "I…What, I pack up a bag, I walk out that door, and I expect to be let back in when I'm done with my grand endeavor?"

"Boys and girls younger than yourself have done it."

"Roger—"

"Brendan is your age. He's already saved the world, twice, and his family does not hate him for it. Believe me—your father will still be here when you return."

"What about Lincoln? Or Nimona?"

Roger sighed at my excuses. "I'll give you tomorrow to think about it," he said. "If by tomorrow night, you still aren't sure, then I'll go it alone."

And I would never see Roger again. Something in me was sure of that.

I lay back down beside him.

"It's Littleroot Town," I said. "Then we come home."

"Nope. I know a person who can give me a lead. After that, all of Hoenn is game." He chuckled. "We'll be lucky if the meteorite isn't broken into seven shard scattered across the world."

"That sounds horrible and contrived."

"A lot of things tend to be," Roger said, yawning. "If you ask me, life is badly written. Goodnight, Mary Mackle."

He turned on his side to face me, and closed his eyes, and he was snoring in the next second. Roger had left his hand on the outside of the duvet.

Leave my home. It was a bold offer.

I would leave, and I would save my brother, and probably my family.

No. That was naïve, even for me. There were problems buried deep in this house, and no macguffin would fix that. But it would help.

…But if I left, what would that do to my father? Would Linc want to stay around the anger I would create?

Or.

To put it another way.

I had dropped out of school because it was easier than solving what I had done, and I told myself that I was better than school, but now I am not sure.

If I went with Roger, would I be running away from my family? Would I be sure I had done the right thing?

A small Roger sneeze snapped me out of the monologue.

Stupid Roger. Stupid pretty-with-the-stars-shining-on-him Roger.

Carefully, so he didn't wake up and notice how much of a super-creep I was being, I took his hand and moved it back on my face.

Everything in me quieted, and I did not open my eyes until the sun rose.

* * *

And so we move toward having an actual plot. Even though I love slice-of-life so much that it hurts, and I'm pretty sure that's obvious by now. =)

Thanks for reading, and thanks double for reviewing!


	5. Give me a minute

Mary, Meet Arcanine

…

Chapter 5 – "Give me a minute."

I awoke to a shoulder shaking me, gently, though enthusiastically.

"What?"

"Wake up!" Dad. No longer in a funk, from the sound of things. "We're going out for breakfast this morning. Earl's has a deal on pancakes, four for a dollar, but we don't want to be late!"

My vision started to clear. Roger was nowhere to be seen, neither the boy nor the Arcanine. The clothes I had given him were gone, too. Where did he go?

Me, drowsy: "Where is—"

"Lincoln won't be coming," Dad said. "He has something to do with his girlfriend, he said. He took a personal day, meaning for us, it's a Daddy-Daughter day. Come on, rise and shine!"

He started back for the hallway, but not before flicking my light on and off, and finally leaving it on, so I would have to get up to fix it. Great.

We had entered a new phase. Apologetic Dad.

Apologetic Dad was probably the best one to go on, except for a few insidious bits. (I learned that word in eighth grade. Coincidentally, that's when I invented Apologetic Dad.)

Earl's Flapjack House was one of those institutions that had billboards on the road telling you exactly what exit and how many miles away from the nearest truck stop it was. We didn't go to Earl's often, since it was only about half an hour closer to home than Buttonwillow itself was. The trade-off was, since Earl's was so far, it was almost never crowded. The clientele included lost Trainers, local farmhands, and the occasional hip-twentysomething-tourist. Meaning, we always got the booth in the far corner, overlooking the bluffs and the water and the Wingull.

Dad ordered two coffees from the waiter. While they spoke, I waved at the flock overhead, soaring fifty feet up on the other side of the windows. I gave just four fingers, and one wave, but I hoped it mattered.

"…And what will you be having, young lady?" The waiter, a woman who seemed both old enough and kind enough to be a mother, asked me with a bounce in her voice.

I opened my mouth to ask for orange juice.

"Nothing," Dad snapped. "We'll be having the same thing. The four-for-a-dollar deal, please."

If the waitress figured my dad's words were in any way short, she didn't react to it. She came back with our drinks and two frosty glasses of water, and then Dad and I were alone for a while.

A Trainer couple walked in the front, and bell dinged over the door. The girl wore her hair up in a bun, and the boy had his head covered with a bandana.

"I know we have a lot to get done today," Dad started, pulling my attention back to our booth. "But take your time, the pancakes are worth it. Good pancakes," he trailed off.

The boy took the girl's hand, and they went to the booth on the other wall, the one facing the open plains and the road ahead.

They had to be older than me. _Way_ older. According to TV, if they look like they could play teenagers on a soap opera—which these people did—then they had to be at least eighteen, maybe even _twenty_.

Woah.

"I didn't come home last night," Dad said.

"I know."

The Trainer boy couldn't keep his hands off of the girl, but she couldn't keep to herself, either. Hand holding and tickling at the sides and poking with forks and pecks on the cheek. Even when they managed to be quiet, they were seated so their arms were always touching.

I suddenly wondered where Lincoln was.

And I missed Roger, too. Weird as that was.

"I needed to get away." Dad had drank half of his coffee already, like they were going to take it away or something. "It's hard to explain, but I can't stand that house sometimes, Mary. It's why I need so much help from you and Lincoln. It's just so much work, and it never ends, what with the trades and training and feeding and cleaning and renting and...Sometimes I get caught on a bad day."

"I know."

"Your brother left that note that we'd be investigated yesterday. Before I could even process that much, Nimona's father was at our door with that _crook_." He swallowed. "I lost my temper. You and I, we exchanged some words, Mary, and I didn't mean what I said. I hope that's clear."

 _We exchanged some words_.

He threw an orange carton and screamed at Lincoln.

Dad could do whatever he wanted to the juice he bought. He could say whatever he wanted to me, no matter what it was, because I was his daughter and he brought me into the world.

My father did not have the right to raise his voice to Lincoln.

The waitress returned with our food and a rack with four kinds of syrup. Dad stuffed his napkin down the front of his shirt and waggled his eyebrows at me in anticipation. I don't recall reacting one way or the other.

"I also think there's…okay, Mary. You won't want to hear this."

Oh, so that 'we exchanged words' was the most I would get by way of an apology.

Not an _I'm sorry I exploded like Mount Vesuvius for no reason other than you being in my line of blood-red sight._

Not even an _I apologize for scaring you, when the last person I should ever intentionally terrify is my daughter._

 _We exchanged some words._ And a plate of pancakes.

Apologetic Dad was an asshole.

But he was better than Drunken Gone Dad, and that's who he had been last night. Being Mary Mackle was about not rocking the boat, and taking what you could get.

Anyway. Dad was talking.

"…I want you to give school another thought."

Maybe he wanted me to drop my fork in surprise.

Or for me to start whining, like the annoying teenager I was not and never had been. (At least, as far as I can tell.)

Unlike Heath, Dad was at least sane. He continued carefully: "You think working at the farm your whole life is a reasonable goal, and believe me, Mary, I appreciate the help. It's not smart, though. Farm stuff is for guys like me, who work with our hands. We act first, and we do stupid shit, and we can barely read. Working a farm is a godsend for fellows like me, and Mary, you're too damn smart for it."

"I'm not smart."

"Don't give me that. What's that word you used to describe the end of that movie? Started with a p…Porthos? No…"

" _Pathos_ ," I said. Which, as taught to me during lunch by my English and Drama teachers, referred to a quality of human interaction that evoked pity or sadness. It basically made the audience _feel_ something.

Thanks to this talk, I _felt_ like going home and staying under the covers forever.

…Except then, I remembered Roger's ultimatum. I was to have an answer for him by tonight.

God. Fifteen years old and I was already dreading pillow talk. My life.

" _Pathos_ ," My dad said with a wry laugh. "Who the hell talks like that? My daughter, that's who." He shook his head, and: "You're so much like your mother, it's frightening."

I reached for the blueberry syrup. The Trainer couple was chatting up our waitress, and I wondered if she had children their age.

"I looked into Mauville Community College," Dad said after some effort. "If you really don't want to go back to high school, you can get your equivalency degree, and take some college classes in January. If you really don't like it, then I won't force you."

"I won't."

"You won't what?"

"I won't like the classes, Dad. I'm done with school. I meant it."

" _Mary_ , you're throwing your life away. You have a future. I don't want this farm for you, and believe me, your mother didn't, either. She wanted you to be happy. The farm is _not_ your happiness."

…I let him get away with that.

We ate the rest of our meal in companionable silence. Once Dad looked out and noticed that there were more Wingull than before, and they seemed to be hovering. He said it was strange.

"The world can surprise you," I said, and I did not explain it.

…

Roger the Arcanine was waiting patiently in our living room. Lincoln had fed him, but had no clue what else to do with him, and so he invited our almost-Legendary guest to a few hours of cable cartoons on the sofa. Roger seemed pleased with himself, the way he lay on his side with his tail draping the cushions.

Dad kicked him right back outside and scolded Lincoln.

Life, I guess.

…

I was in the garage now, hour four into my weekend routine of emptying out the expired Pokemon chow and loading the dispensers with this month's food. Dad's voice came in over the garage intercom. "Mary, phone."

"Hooooooy," I said in acknowledgement. I stopped what I was doing and went for the wall phone. "Hullo?"

"Mary, my dad is out of his mind."

"Hey, Nim," I said. I activated my special reserve of patience, reserved for Nimona drama and Kurt BS. "Is everything okay?"

"Clearly not! I'm calling you instead of bugging you in person!"

Nimona hadn't come over to nag me since Mom. I let it slide.

"Dad's gone," she said meekly.

"Off the deep end, you mean? Dads seem to be doing that lately."

"I'm not joking, Mary," Nimona said, fighting her own giggle. "I mean, for real. He's physically not here."

I was grateful for the long phone chord. I slid along the wall until my ass hit the floor, and I sprawled my legs out. "Wait, where did he go? I'm confused."

"It's about your brother. Dad said he got a lead on him being out in _Lillycove City_. What in the—your brother is our age. How is he supposed to get there? That doesn't even make any sense, right?"

"No clue," I said, though Nimona didn't hear me because she was still talking: "I'm sorry about your brother, Mary. He's not what everyone thinks he is. I mean, _I_ know it. He's sweet. He's a little rough, but he's sweet at the core." And: "That's like a Mackle family trait, I think."

" _Thanks_ ," I drawled.

"I was calling to ask for a favor," she said.

"One of your Dramatic Nimona Favors?"

"May they live in infamy," she said. A sniffle, then: "Can you stay with me this week?"

"Nim—"

"I'm _so lonely_ ," Nimona wailed. "This place is a mouse-o-liam."

"'Mausoleum'," I corrected. Then: "Nim, I can't leave. You know what it's like over here. There's so much work I have to do every day. If I'm gone for even an hour too long, my dad loses his marbles. Even asking him might—"

And then I froze.

And I mean, seriously, I froze the way cartoon characters do when you press 'pause' on the remote control. The universe stopped.

When I decided to drop out, part of that was from my mother's wisdom. She believed that the world always gave you an opportunity, even if you yourself did not see it. She believed that if you needed something from someone, the world would create a way to ask them for it.

(She was also the person who recommended me _The Secret Life of Bees_. My mother. I miss her like a dead man misses breathing.)

"Nimona," I started. I breathed. "I'm having sex with a teenage boy that's living in my bedroom."

"I…no…Hold…wait, _what?_ "

"Never mind," I said. "That was a test. Dad's not listening. I had to be sure."

"Ho-kay. Why did you use _that_ test?"

"I don't know."

Remote, press pause.

Then: "I need to ask something of you. You won't like it."

"Does it involve me not being alone in my big, stupid, lonely house? Because I would appreciate that—"

"It involves you lying for me."

I heard Nimona rustle through shelves. Likely raiding her stash of snacks, saved for fork-in-the-road-of-life situations like these. "Is it gross or personal? Mary, you know me. I'm horrible at either gross or personal."

"It's not gross or personal. I think."

"Fair enough." A cellophane wrapper crinkle escaped into Nimona's receiver and stung my ears. "What kind of lie are we talking? Taking twenty bucks from the metaphorical cookie jar again?"

"Promise not to freak out?"

"I have a high not-freak-out capacity. Hit me."

…

"Dad, I'm staying with Nimona for a week."

My internal Dad's-anger-o-meter shot up to halfway. We were at the dinner table, the two of us, like some dysfunctional David-and-Goliath family. I shivered over my plate of salmon and –from-the-bag-gourmet salad.

"No," Dad said simply. "Nimona knows how much work goes into us running this farm. I can't let that work." He craned his head thoughtfully. "If _she_ wanted to come _here_ , that might be something…Provided she's willing to work in exchange for room and board…"

I hadn't seen Roger all day, not since the living room incident. I had no clue where he was now.

Somehow, I knew he was listening in, judging how this went down.

Mary Mackle versus Wilson Mackle, with the fate of Kurt Mackle and the meteorite that could save him hanging in the balance.

"Her dad is gone for the week," I explained. "She doesn't want to stay in her house by herself, and I'm the only friend her dad actually likes. If Nimona told him I was there, her dad would probably be really thankful."

It helped that Nimona and I were both from father-run single-parent households. It ticked on Dad's off-seen empathy meter.

Dad drank from his beer and let the can rest in his hand, elbow on the table. "Well, like I said. She can come here for the week. We have more than enough space. She can stay in your room."

I almost said something about how many people I could fit in that space. I did not.

"She can't," I said quickly, before my mouth could catch up. Then: "She's allergic. To something in the tall grass outside my window. It happened last time she was here, she got all sneezy."

I saw Roger face-palm (paw-palm?) in my mind's eye.

"I said 'no'," Dad repeated.

"But Dad, I already told her—"

"I said _no_." His words boomed, and I lauded the glass for not shattering. "That's the end of it, okay? I have too much on my plate, and Lincoln took time off to be with that girlfriend of his, and so I need you in that garage, pronto. First thing tomorrow. Eat your food."

I had stopped eating. I didn't notice, but my appetite vanished.

Dad had left me with no options. I couldn't stay home. Kurt needed me.

Our family needed me.

What was I supposed to do?

…Mom, what was I supposed to do?

"Dad—"

" _What?_ "

"It's not about Nim," I said hesitantly. When Dad relaxed enough to actually chew his food, I began again. "About me going back to school…"

"You're doing it," he snapped.

"I know," I conceded, even if I didn't believe my words. "You said I would go through college, not high school."

Dad grunted.

"Are we…How…Is it expensive?"

"We can afford it. We're not in money trouble, if that's what you're asking."

"Oh," I said. "You would tell me if we were, right?"

"Christ, Mary. I don't know. You're a kid. You aren't supposed to know that stuff. If you do, it means I screwed up _my_ job as a parent."

Dad was leaving me no way to casually leave the house, and he flat-out said that if I wasn't here for hard labor, we wouldn't go under.

If he said we were about to be in the poor shack, I would have to stay.

If he said it was me and him against the world, I would have to stay.

Mom, believe me. I tried.

"Hurry and finish up. I made something."

I shoveled down the rest of my food. I tasted none of it.

Dad cleared our place settings and brought it to the sink. He reached into the fridge with both hands. "Since Lincoln is gone for a little while, I thought we could…I don't know, not take advantage of it necessarily, but…Well, look."

Dad turned around.

He had baked a cake.

A full-blown sheet cake, with frosting and everything. He held it in both arms like a plank of two-by-fours.

"Dad, when did you make that?"

"This afternoon," he said. He placed it on the table, then went back to the kitchen for plates and forks and a knife. "I know I've been an ass recently. It's not your fault. I've had a lot on my mind, and I'm sorry. I am."

"I know, Dad."

"You always say that, but that doesn't excuse my temper." He smiled. I hadn't seen the smile lines around his mouth in what felt like an eternity. "I thought we could watch some TV together. There's that cartoon you and Lincoln like."

"It's Linc's thing," I started, but amended it to: "But I think it's silly. Maybe you'd like it?"

"We'll see," Dad said. He cut two slices roughly the size of Ever Grande City, and we headed to the sofa.

Half an hour later, I was halfway through my half of the cake, and I was snuggled next to my daddy, whom I was leaving in the morning.

Mom, I tried my best to stay here with Dad. Really, I did.

…

"What did you decide?"

Roger was already human when I came in my room. I washed the dishes and waited for Dad to be asleep before I went upstairs.

I didn't say anything to Roger yet. I went to my closet and started moving my never-worn dresses and jackets around.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

I dug deep, until I felt the handle of my black duffel bag. I tugged at it until it came loose, freeing a good pile of too-small pants with it. "Packing. What does it look like?"

Roger slid toward the edge of the bed. His feet skirted the floor. "Mary, you don't have to do this."

"No, I don't, but it's up to me. It's not like you're forcing me to—"

"I _am_. I thought about what I said last night, Mary."

Roger's words approached an introspection that didn't have an ounce of irony. (God, I _was_ an English student.) "I offered you a golden ticket for your life, and then I gave you an ultimatum. Nobody deserves that kind of casual cruelty. I wouldn't wish it on Heath."

Casual cruelty.

"I feel like there's a story behind that."

"There is," Roger said flippantly. "If you don't want to come, that's fine. I won't leave right away. Maybe in a week, or so. There are reasons why I would like to stay."

"Like what?"

Roger's lips pulled to the side. "You have tasty treats. And I don't think that was meant as a euphemism."

"A what?"

"A euphemism?"

I shook my head.

"Better that's a word you _don't_ know," Roger said with a smile.

So. Traveling.

I had no idea how long we would be gone. That, coupled with my abhorrent laundry skills, meant I was packing whatever was clean. Seven pairs of underwear, three of mismatched socks.

"I'm serious," Roger said. "I saw you with your dad, down there."

"Oh?"

"I'm afraid I'm pushing you into something. I don't want you to regret anything because of me."

I dropped the duffel bag and the ball of shirts I was stuffing into it.

I sat down, my legs in front of me and opened a bit, and I faced Roger. Roger spread his legs out a little bit, and his feet touched the inside of my calves, and suddenly we were in a closed space to our own. I could feel his breath on the backs of my fingers as they lay between us, only a few inches away from his own long, freakish boy hands.

"Roger, my mom…When she was still here, she had a saying. Or a belief, I guess. An outlook. She thought that whenever you were meant to do something, the world gave you the opportunity for it.

"I spent today looking for that chance. I wondered if Nimona lying for me was it, but Dad smacked that idea down so hard, I actually felt it." Roger's chest heaved a silent laugh. "And then Dad told me that we weren't hurting for money or anything. Maybe if he said he needed me around, I'd have a reason to stay, but that's not it at all."

Roger's hands were so close to mine now, I could feel the warmth radiating from them. His fingernails grazed mine ever so slightly, and then like lightning, there was the unmistakable sensation of skin against skin, and I was no longer alone in my small, Podunk girlhood room. I was not snuggled by my father, and I was not kept at arms length by Lincoln. I was better than not-alone: in the most bizarre way, I felt understood.

That makes no sense.

Some days, I think I'm allowed to not make sense.

I hooked a finger around the index finger attached to the shape-shifting Pokemon boy.

"I'm starting to think that this, this right here, is the sign the world is giving me," I told him. "This is what I'm supposed to do."

"Mary—"

"And when we come back with the meteorite, I'll find a way to get it back to you, or you'll take it yourself, and we'll never meet again, and _I am okay with it_. I'll have my family again, Roger. Kurt will be able to come home because Team Aqua won't be hunting him, and Dad won't have a reason to drink anymore, and maybe Lincoln won't want to leave if the Aquas calm down. It's everything I want. Right here."

I focused on our hooked fingers. If I watched Roger's reaction, I would have to admit the truth both of us knew.

…My plan to save the Mackle family was too good to be true.

Over the sound of the Pokemon rustling in the tall grass not ten feet from my window, and over our two steady breaths and that silent tension that my dad would come through that door at any moment, I forced myself to hear my wishful thinking for what it was.

But wasn't I allowed that much?

Out loud, I said: "I'm allowed this much, aren't I?"

Roger's finger became firmer. "I can't tell you that, Mary. No one can."

"This is stupid," I said. "This is _so_ stupid. I don't even know you. You could be leading me off to some human trafficking ring."

Roger snorted, loudly enough to make me jump. I asked what the big idea was, and he said: "Okay, so I'm a human trafficker shifter person. Which makes no sense, but I'll go with it. How would this play out?"

"What do you mean?"

"For real, give me the scenario. How does it play out?"

I thought back to all of those YouTube documentaries. "I guess you're the human trafficking decoy, right? You're the pretty one that makes me get comfortable, so I trust you enough to do something stupid like run away for a meteorite. We'd be in the middle of the road, and I guess a truck would drive up, and you'd knock me out and throw me in the back."

"Okay, sure. Then what?"

"And….and then I wake up in some other country, and your goons get me hooked on heroin, and I get sold for my virginity, and—"

"You're describing the plot from _Taken_."

"False. I did _not_ see that movie. "And: "You watch movies, too, huh?"

I caught Roger's sly grin as my eyes adjusted to the night. Everything turns a gentle blue after a while, doesn't it?

"Here's how it would actually go down," Roger said. "Your dad is going to call the authorities inside of twelve hours. That's just a fact. Now, if there's a trafficking ring of _any_ kind, the Covenant of Light knows about it. They're probably trying to bust this fictional gang as I speak."

"The Covenant of Light? You're making things up—"

"Nope. They're a Justice League of Pokemon Trainers, working with and above the law to protect this world we live in. Brendan joined them pretty recently, as a matter of fact. They go around doing good deeds and saving the day and what-not."

"So this trafficking ring would deal with Brendan."

"Brendan, or that guy with the hair…Wally! Him, that guy. One of them would show up so fast, it would make your head spin. We wouldn't make it out of Mauville City."

I shook my head. "That's impossible. Roger, Hoenn is huge. You named two people."

"Two people is plenty. It's like I told you before: you need to let the Pokemon World surprise you."

I smirked. "It'll surprise me by turning me into a trafficking victim."

"And so we come full circle," Roger ceded.

The pad of Roger's thumb ran across my fingernail, and I felt nerve endings that I didn't know I had.

"My back hurts," I said. Sitting on the floor against nothing does that for you.

"Come by the bed. It's comfy. And I do not mean that in a creepy-human-trafficking kind of way."

I crawled on all fours to the bed, and I leaned against it beside Roger. (I was tired. I did not rest my head on his shoulder. I did not.)

"I really don't want to do this," I said. "I'm scared."

"Who are you telling? I'm terrified too, and this place is comfy. You don't come across a comfy place too often when you're a shifter."

"It's horrible here. That's why I'm leaving."

"It's not _horrible_. I mean, you're here."

"You're _such_ a human trafficking decoy."

"Don't tell Brendan that."

In all seriousness: "How is this supposed to work? Like, specifics. I have about two hundred bucks in my piggy bank, but—"

"A fifteen-year-old girl with a piggy bank," Roger awed.

"Hey! No laughing! You're a guest!"

"With an adorable host. She has a piggy bank!"

"I only have two hundred bucks in my piggy bank," I said again. "That won't get us far."

"We only have to get _you_ far. Remember, I'm a Pokemon. And besides, the only real money is getting us from Mauville to Slateport. Once we get there, I know a guy."

"You know a guy."

"A guy with a boat. And, no, you will not get on the boat and wake up in some weird backwater country. He'll get us to Rustboro City, and from there, I know someone who can get us to Littleroot. It's a week's travel, I'm sure of it."

"One week _one-way?_ Roger! You said I would be home by then!"

"Nope," he said simply. "One week to Littleroot."

I gathered my legs and rested my head on my bent knees. "Fine. What happens in Littleroot? Do you have another _friend_?"

"Don't knock friendships. They're handy for times like these." And: "Yes, by the way. Yes, I do. What do you think of the plan?"

"I think it's insane." Though: "It's also the only thing that's even trying to make sense."

My dad tried to make sense, just a few hours ago. He never tried. This time, he did. Me being gone would crush him. Would literally crush him.

Lincoln was probably with Christy, right now, lying beside her and wondering if she would leave with him, or if he would leave her to possibly save her.

Kurt was anywhere in the world, destroying our family from far away.

And I was still blaming Kurt for a hurt that Mom started, except that it was beyond cruel to blame someone for _dying_.

God, and here I was, running away with a Pokemon-shifter-boy I had known for three days.

"When do we go?" I brought myself to ask, after a long silence.

"As soon as you're ready," Roger said.

My head perked up. "Like, right now? _Right now_ right now?"

"Whenever you're ready," he said.

I threw my head against the mattress edge. The stars shined on my window and cast white dancers of light on my ceiling.

"Once you're packed and everything, I mean—"

"Give me a minute," I said.

I took exactly three breaths. And a fourth.

"Give me a minute."

I drummed my fingers on the floor. I thumped my feet, I bobbed my head from side to side, I re-tied my left braid of curly brown hair.

I became still.

"Give you a minute?" Roger asked mockingly.

"Nope." I jumped to my feet. "I'm ready."

* * *

Thanks for reading, thanks double if you came here all the way from the start, and thanks triple-time for reviewing. =)


	6. Ordinary world

Mary, Meet Arcanine

…

Chapter 6 – "Ordinary world."

I had wanted to stop and stare at my house once I had gotten outside.

I had imagined myself standing, square in the middle of the photo in my mind, watching my home in the night. My two braids flowed, my open pink hoodie flapped, and my duffel bag and Jansport backpack weighed me down like burdens.

In reality, I didn't have the nerve to stop walking until it was almost dawn, and my feet were ready to fall off.

I made the idiot mistake of taking my duffel bag, not a rolling suitcase, and so the carrying strap was starting to dig into my collarbone.

I had forgotten to brush my teeth before leaving, and so I was tasting my own mouth.

And I was getting both hungry, and thirsty.

But hey, if I stopped walking, I increased the chances of seeing my dad's truck barrel down the road.

…No, that's not how cause and effect worked. I know. Still.

Roger had shifted back to his Arcanine form for the night walk. This interrupted his schedule of Pokemon-by-day, boy-by-night. If I understood how shifting worked, that meant he would probably have to shape-shift at unfortunate intervals throughout the following day. He said it was like a bathroom break, right?

We would have to make sure to stay on top of that, then.

The black sky changed to gray, and then to a gentle violet. Finally an orange light peeked up over the tall grass and bathed the flatlands around us.

Roger parked his furry butt on a random patch of dirt road. I blinked and he was a boy again. I shut my eyes while he fished through the duffel bag for his clothes.

"This is the spot," he said. "We'll need to wait here for a bit. We're about thirty minutes early."

"Exactly thirty minutes? How can you tell?"

"Pokemon things," Roger said. I heard a pair of pants and a shirt collapse to the ground, so I didn't look at him yet. It was a good call, because: "I'm going to stay as an Arcanine until he comes, is that okay?"

"Sure," I said tentatively. "What do you need me to do?"

"Stay awake, mostly. Keep a look out for a red convertible."

"A red convertible," I said. "How inconspicuous."

"Less yak, more watch-keeping," Roger responded. I felt the figure behind me shrink down, and took that as my cue to see him again. My Arcanine travel buddy lay on all fours and stared, absently, into the tall grass surrounding us.

I let my duffel bag drop to the ground, and I shouldered the second strap of my backpack onto my shoulder.

For every faster-than-a-speeding-bullet heartbeat in my chest, there was one of two thoughts.

One: _I can't believe I'm doing this Dad is going to kill me my life is LITERALLY OVER I am a monster and I am inconsiderate and a monster and—_

Two: _I am a woman on a mission. Hear my cry, Pokemon World!_

I couldn't help it. The world had changed, and not in the way I had expected it to.

I had dreamed for a while of stepping out. I don't mean I longed to abandon my family or anything, because running away is an entirely juvenile act unto itself, but rather that I dreamed of seeing something outside of my rural backwater town. I dreamed of being somewhere where an authority figure wouldn't bark at me. When I think about it, was that all I was doing when I dropped out of school? Wasn't I simply trading one barking voice for another?

I digress.

Out on your own, the world has color again.

The tall grass sways to a rhythm all its own, to a beat only the individual strands can hear.

The clouds have their brightness turned up to eleven, as though they're intentionally trying to blind you and keep you from noticing the powerful cobalt that is the sky, and feeling the urge in your fingers to reach out and grasp it for yourself.

I was terrified, standing there on the road. But I was more energized than I had been in my entire life.

After an hour, I heard an engine down the road. My heart stopped.

But then I realized, it was coming from the wrong direction. Dad's truck would be coming from the way we had walked; this engine was barreling down the way we would go.

"That's not us, is it?" I asked Roger. "There's no way someone would come from the city just to grab us…right?"

Roger huffed through his nose. (Snout? Do Arcanines have snouts or noses?)

We heard the engine for what felt like a good while, and then the music on the stereo came over, too. I expected some kind of pounding bass from the red convertible that approached us, slowly but surely, and yet I was wrong. What was that genre with heavy guitars and brooding chord progressions? Nimona probably knew this.

The convertible bolted past us without slowing down. The brakes screeched and I held my hands over my ears. The car swerved into a drift and grinded its tires, sideways, to a stop. The resulting dust cloud dissipated through the tall grass.

"That's us," Roger said, back to his boy form and clothed, which was clearly a rush job. The tag to the shirt was showing on his front. "Ready?"

I took my backpack, but Roger was faster than I was, and he heaved the duffel bag onto his shoulders. I approached the convertible with all the enthusiasm of a funeral procession.

The door opened. Moment of truth—was it a human trafficking agent, or an actual person?

Cue my surprise: a man old enough to be Lincoln's brother, so he had to be somewhere in his mid-twenties, meaning ancient. He hadn't gotten the memo, though: his oversized shirt had some absurd Anime girl on the front, and he had cut off the sleeves to make it a tank top. His jeans hit the ground and wrapped around his ankles, where the fabric dragged and tore.

I didn't know we were being rescued by a member of a punk rock band.

"Roger, is that your punk-ass all the way over there?" The man asked.

"The one and only." Roger tossed the duffel bag into the back seat. The man was taller than Roger by almost a whole head, but he was lean, especially in the arms and shoulders, where Lincoln and my father were built like titans. They did that manly hand-grasp thing. "Thanks for coming out this way. I owe you like no other."

"Not even, man." He addressed me now, and I reflexively stood straight. "So my Ma is in the hospital, and I can't pay the bills, right? I take up underground Pokemon battling, and this guy, Roger right here, shows up and is all, 'I have an Arcanine you can use', and I'm like, _no way!_ And he lends me this Arcanine just as long as I keep it clean and fed and stuff. I gave it back, got more than enough cash, and now _he_ thinks _he_ owes _me_. What a world, huh, glasses?"

I was too hung up on the absurdity of that story to see he was asking me a question. Roger spoke up for me. "Mary Mackle, this is Oliver King, who's something of an underground battling legend. Courtesy of myself, of course. And Oliver, this would be Miss Mary Mackle, a young girl on a quest to save her brother."

The hairs on the back of my neck perked up. Wasn't it, like, an awful idea to give out my real name? As in, _awful?_

Oliver gave me a once-over integrated into his with-the-music head bobs. His stringy black hair rippled and the tips touched his bare shoulders.

"Another pet project, Roger?" Oliver clicked his tongue. "I guess I'm not one to judge. You said we had to hit the road fast, right?"

"And preferably unseen," Roger added.

"Fair enough. Hop on in, and don't scratch the leather. I just paid for that." And then: "Push the Taco Bell wrappers to the side, if you need to, Mary Mackle."

"Just Mary," I said.

Roger casually ambled to the passenger side of the convertible and jumped in over the closed door. I took the normal route and opened the back seat door. A few wrappers spilled out, and I brushed the ones on the seat aside. Once I was buckled in, Oliver revved the engine and moved a few gear shifts. It looked more dramatic than it probably was.

"Oh, Rog," Our driver projected over the panther howl of his engine. "I totally picked up that thing for you, buddy. It took pulling a ton of strings. Those things don't come cheap, you know?"

"Of course. That's why I needed you to pull said strings." Roger smirked, in that way where if literally any other person on earth had said that line, they would have probably been thrown out of the car. I heard him fishing through a bag. "This it?"

"The newest model, fully charged, _plus_ Silph Co 4G wireless. As if you expected less?"

Roger chucked a small-ish plastic grocery bag my way. I didn't pick it up at first, but Roger's gaze found me in the rear-view mirror, and so I fished through it.

My response at the unopened, shiny, more-than-Lincoln's-monthly-paycheck PokeNav inside: "You're kidding."

Oliver: "Rog said you were traveling without one of those things, right? Terrible idea. If you ask me, when you're on a master quest, and you want to see the world, you need master gear. Now, hold on."

I was still dumbfounded at being given a free PokeNav. "Hold on…to the seat?"

The accelerator roared. Everything went blurry for a moment, thanks to my head hitting the cushion.

Oliver King: "Next stop: Mauville City!"

…

Like I told you before, Mauville City is a day's drive away from Mackle Farms. Even taking into account how much walking Roger and I did, it was still at least six hours out of the way.

The first hour and a half of the trip were me sitting in the back, watching the scenery remain the same no matter how fast we went, while Roger and his friend talked about random guy things. Which video game came out when, who in Oliver's group was dating whom, what was legal and what wasn't in the Pokemon battling scene, all that stuff.

I started to get cold feet, if you could believe that without hating me.

I could still turn back if I wanted, right? I hadn't signed some blood-oath contract, and I hadn't even left Buttonwillow County yet. I could turn right back around and go home.

Granted, I would be in the exact same place I started from, but that wasn't the point. I _could_. And that was changing with every passing moment.

The car slowed, but the reason was immediately apparent. We were pulling up on a burger place.

"I thought we were in a hurry," I said, and it came out more rudely than I had expected.

Oliver didn't seem fazed. "I don't know what you're running away from, Mary, but no getaway is successful on an empty stomach."

He pulled up to a parking space, which was simple, since…well, nobody lived out here. I don't have to keep repeating that, do I?

Even out here, where we were a few hours closer to civilization, the air still tasted full and lonely and desperate. Roger opened his door this time. We walked to the building's door, but Roger was slower than normal. I opened the door for him. "Are you feeling okay?" I asked him.

"Don't worry about it," Roger said. "Hunger pangs."

Once we were inside the restaurant, Roger made a beeline past the seating area toward the restrooms. Beside me, Oliver folded his arms and became a statue.

There was a TV on the ceiling corner. I watched it, worried. Something in me expected to find my face plastered on a 'missing persons' report. I doubted that it was urgent enough news to interrupt the current 'Jerry Springer' broadcast. Oh, daytime television.

"What is it?" Oliver asked, expectedly.

"What's on the TV?" I replied. "Have you never seen..?"

"What are you _eating_?"

I decided that Oliver was one of those people who had aggressive voices, but who was not, in themselves, an aggressive person. He had a wide face now that I was paying attention, and his blue eyes were almost reflective. "Whatever you're having," I said, carefully.

"It's on me," Oliver clarified. "And we ain't stopping for food until we get you two to town."

I hadn't eaten a fast-food burger in a while. How much was too much?

And once we got to Mauville City, how much would food cost? Did it make sense to buy more food than I needed, in case we got stranded?

In the end, I took the path of least resistance. "R-really, whatever you're getting is fine."

"Fair enough," Oliver said with a shrug that shook his lean upper-body frame. He went up to the register, where a small boy with the restaurant chain's black-and-red uniform seemed bored to tears. In the clear, semi-aggressive Oliver voice: "We'll have five Original Burger combos, one with fried pickles, two Quesadilla delights, one Fajita Burger Surpeme, and…" A final turn my way: " _Seven_ spicy beef sandwiches. That should be it."

The boy, completely oblivious to an order that could feed all of Buttonwillow: "Will that be cash, credit, or debit, sir?"

Ten minutes later, we were presented with four sacks of greasy food. Oliver took three of them in one hand. I reached for one out of courtesy—I mean, he was paying for lunch and dinner and possibly breakfast—but Oliver pushed my hand away. "It's heavy," he said. Considering the order, I believed him.

I waited by the door, but Oliver pushed through and sat in the convertible. It occurred to me that this Oliver King character could drive off, Roger could have left through the bathroom window, and I might have just stranded myself here.

"You waited for me," Roger said as he emerged from the restroom. "What was that for?"

"Courtesy," I said shortly. Now I had to use the restroom, too, but what were the odds I'd get left behind?

Roger must have picked up on my indecision. He clasped a hand on my shoulder. "I'm going to knock out in the back seat," he said. "Chat up Oliver for a few hours. I know he can be a bit intimidating, but trust me on this. He's a good man. He won't drive off without you."

Roger's trademark end-of-pep-talk grin was exhausted. All of him seemed clouded, if that makes sense.

He went to the car before I could say anything. I did as I was told: restroom, washed my face to calm my nerves, and then it was to the front seat of the convertible.

Imagine my surprise when I looked in at the back of the convertible and found a certain Arcanine passed out on the seats.

I stood there on the curb and pointed, with my jaw hanging. Did Oliver know that Roger was a shifter? Was that an open secret?

What did that mean about Roger and Oliver and their underground Pokemon ring thing?

"I know exactly what you mean," Oliver said at my stunned expression. "Lounging around my leather interior. What a fuzzball, am I right?"

…

Neither of us said a word for the next half hour or so. Oliver plowed through our food, eating with one hand and driving with the other and generally looking like the cover of a rap album, if rap had originated in Buttonwillow County. We passed one car going in an opposite direction, and they gave him one of those upward head nods. Maybe they thought Oliver was gangster. People still call each other gangster, right?

"You can change the radio if you want," Oliver said to break the silence.

"I'm fine," I said.

Oliver saw through the lie. "Mary, I'm a twenty-four-year-old Mauville City fellow, and even I'm tired of prog metal. Flick the dial. It's not gonna bite you."

He threw a glance my way. My hand eased over to the complicated mess of buttons that was the convertible's stereo, and I started searching for channels. It was mostly static, and who would be surprised?

A song finally came on. Sad guitars and synth in the background. I had been found.

Oliver seemed to enjoy the song, too. He eased into his seat and drummed his fingers along the steering wheel.

"Isn't Duran Duran a little before your time?" Oliver asked me.

"Who?"

"Duran Duran! This is their song!" He turned it up louder. And to himself: "God, they're probably before my time too. Whatever. Good music is eternal, and all that."

"I didn't know that was a saying—"

"It's not. Here we go," Oliver cranked it, "Sing it with me!

" _And I won't cry for yesterday_

 _There's an ordinary world_

 _Somehow, I have to find_

" _And as we try to make our way_

 _To the ordinary world_

 _I will learn to survive_

"Aaaaand…Excellent guitar riff!" Oliver full-blown took his hands off of the wheel and started to air guitar.

The song slowed after a repeated chorus, and he turned the volume back to a respectable level.

"Roger slept right through that," I noticed.

"He slept through an earthquake once. The mangy mutt."

"So you know," I said casually. "About…what he can do."

"I know that he's a shifter? Of course! I wanted to know that _you_ knew. But I figure, all of us who cross paths with him figure it out eventually."

 _All of us_. "Roger must have a lot of friends, huh?"

"Beats me." A commercial came on the radio, and Oliver turned the volume down further. "I know I…Hm. Here's a story for you. I thought I was hot shit when I brought a shifter to the underground ring, right?"

I went with it.

"I mean, it's one thing to bring a Pokemon you trained. It knows your commands, and it trusts you, and all that. Bringing a shifter? It's like having a person in there. Roger didn't even need my help. The two of us together was overkill."

In the side-view mirror, I caught Roger sneeze in his sleep. "Roger's a fighter?"

"Better believe it. So anyway, there I was, thinking I was some special snowflake, and then some kid shows up, _out of nowhere_ , and challenges me. She's got this red bandana, and this derp-ass fanny pack, and I'm thinking, this is easy pickings, right?

" _Turns out_ , she's packing a Lucario that can Mega Evolve. Mega Evolution! Who the hell brings a Mega Lucario to an underground battle?"

"I dunno," I said, feigning an understanding.

"It made me realize something, glasses. This is the Pokemon World. Each and every one of us has something that makes us special. You and me? We know a shifter. That girl that handed my ass to me? She can Mega Evolve her Pokemon. That Brendan kid has battled gods. It's what life is out here."

I think I understood him. "We're special in that we aren't special at all," I said.

Oliver snapped his fingers. Then he pointed out, across my body at the approaching road sign: "Now entering Mauville County!"

…

The sun was setting now. Nothing like a full day in the car, am I right?

Oliver had asked me to set up the PokeNav, in case I forgot it existed and left it in the car. Which would be _horrible_.

I plugged the handheld into the car's power jack, and the PokeNav asked me a few basic questions. My name, age, preferred language, if I had a Silph Co Wireless username, if I had any contacts to port over, yadda yadda. It made the time go by.

As we drove on, more roads started to converge with ours. The one-lane traffic became two-lane, then three and now we had six lanes going in two directions, with more than the occasional general store or diner along the way.

I must have been gawking, because Oliver chortled at me. "Are we getting homesick already, country mouse?"

I didn't want to lie. "Yep." I mean, beside us, some guy was driving a bright yellow corvette. Bright yellow! Who _buys_ a car like that?

Oliver clicked his tongue. "Here's a thought. Are you in any kind of hurry?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, are you rushing to get someplace tonight? Or can you take another pit stop?"

Instinctively I looked for Roger in the car's mirrors. He was still an Arcanine, and still asleep.

"I don't think I'm in a hurry," I said.

"Excellent."

Oliver turned the wheel so hard, I worried if he would sprain his shoulder. The convertible cut across all three lanes of traffic and barreled for the exit ramp. From here, the road started to ascend, first marginally, and then _bam_ , we were something like forty-five degrees up.

It was over as soon as it had started, and the car slowed as we came to a plateau in the climb. There was an orange glow beyond where the edge of the plateau cliff ended.

Oliver slowed the vehicle to a crawl and got out. I started to follow, and Oliver reminded me to bring what remained of the sack of food.

For the record, quite a lot did remain.

I contemplated waking Roger up, but he looked so peaceful, spread out and lazily scratching himself during his Pokemon dreams. Or were they still human dreams, but while he was physically a Pokemon?

That stuff could make your brain hurt.

"Hurry up!" Oliver yelled.

If it was only the sunset, I had seen a million of them back home. This wouldn't be anything special. Still, I heaved the food bag and went to where Oliver had sat on the grass.

…And, well.

Imagine my surprise when that orange wasn't the sun. It wasn't natural at all.

It was something the city-folk referred to as rush-hour traffic on the freeway.

"Sit down," Oliver chirped. I did as he had: I sat on the grass, then I scooted over to the edge of the cliff side and let my feet dangle. "Check it out, huh? I figured, if you're going to explore the world, you might as well see what you're headed for."

"A concrete jungle, with layer upon layer of steel structure and more vehicles than people, each going to the same place and yet each fighting for the upper hand?"

Oliver paused while fishing a burger from our bag. "The hell are you, a writer?"

"I like to read."

"Christ, I can tell."

My stomach wasn't growling, but there was food in front of me, and I am human. I ate. The horns and tire screeching below was oddly melodic.

"Oliver, what was the name of that song? From this morning?"

"Rock Me Amadeus?"

"God, no. The other one."

It took him a moment. "'Ordinary World', Duran Duran. Why? Want to set it as the PokeNav ringtone or something?"

I shook my head, though the offer was tempting. "It seemed…melancholy. Wistful. I don't know."

"Well, I don't know what those words mean, kid," Oliver said proudly. "But the song came out right after Giovanni got the sack at Silph Co."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I mean, it was great for all the Pokemon, and it totally put that Red kid on the map, but think about it. Their profits tanked. My dad worked in stocks around then, and I had to be like, ten or something. He was pissed off _all the time_. The company lost their CEO, and Silph Co is a major thingy."

"Corporation."

"Yeah, that." He finished the burger and reached for a quesadilla. "So here come Duran Duran, and they're asking: we've got Pokemon Trainers stronger than the government, we've got supervillains being outed from their cushy corrupt jobs, and if you believe anything you read, we've got Legendaries and Pokemon Rangers and all kinds of mess. It wasn't a world anyone recognized."

Oliver threw his head back and sighed, content. "That's what the song's about. It's trying to find something you recognize after everything is…"

"…Upheaved?"

"…Gone, Mary. Just friggin' gone."

I wondered if there was a story behind that.

I didn't ask, though. I knew better. What if he asked about me?

As a matter of fact.

"I've been wondering," I said carefully. "How much did Roger tell you about me?"

"Nothing much. You're a runaway, right?"

So juvenile. "Basically," I conceded. "It's a bit more complicated than that."

"It always is. I left home at your age. My Ma threw me out, and looking back, I don't blame her."

I couldn't resist. "Do you still talk to your family?"

"Sure, every now and then."

"But it's not like it was before you…moved out?"

"Nope. But that's really the neat thing about being on your own. I've got my own life now, and Ma knows that. There's a lot less nagging, believe me."

"You mean she's not worried about you?"

"I dunno. I can handle myself. I'm an adult, and she knows that. If Ma needs me for anything, she can call. I'm always here." And: "Not like, a physical 'here'. You get me."

I nodded, and Oliver softened at the edges. "You get a lot of things. What's with that?"

"I am what I am and I do what I can."

Oliver pushed his lower lip up and studied me. Finally, he said: "Words to live by, glasses."

…

Roger woke up as we pulled into Mauville City proper.

"I have to go to the bathroom crazy bad," he said.

"Good morning to you too, Rog," Oliver yelled over the other cars around us. City freeway was nothing I could have prepared myself for. Barreling seventy miles per hour, with a bazillion other metal tanks, in some off-color purple night, was like something I would read about in class. "You're right on time, too. We're like, twenty minutes away from that address you gave me."

Roger yawned. "It's a BnB," he said. And for the uninitiated: "A bed and breakfast. We spend the night, and then we hitch a bus for Slateport City."

"Sounds like a plan," Oliver said. "I don't suppose you guys have a day or two to stick around, huh? We barely said two words, Rog."

"I know. I'm sorry. We're on a schedule. That's the nature of the quest, Oliver."

"I'm not going to know what the quest is, am I?"

Roger shook his head. "But your role has been, far and away, invaluable."

We pulled off of the highway and entered the grid of skyscrapers and barren, wide streets that was Mauville City.

This is the part where I'm supposed to wax philosophical on how wonderful the city was, and how I felt small in the universe compared to the bustling nightlife of a place with real, honest-to-God Humanity instead of tall grass and missing brothers and angry-but-desperately-trying fathers. Or, I'm supposed to groan at the city, and complain about how I enjoyed being on the farm every day, because being around people was for losers and nerds. Or something.

Actually, I was pretty ambivalent to it.

It wasn't home, but this would also never _be_ my home. I knew, without a doubt, that I would come through this place and keep on going. Eyes on the prize, and all that.

The car slowed and we turned down a thin side-street, the kind without sidewalks, where the absence of trash cans is the only indication that this isn't some dubious alley. At the far end of the "street", I saw the neon lights above the door: 'East Mauville BnB.' Since 1901, it proudly exclaimed.

Oliver cut the engine.

Roger opened the door and took my duffel bag under his arm. He went to the driver's side, where Oliver had already gotten out, and they did that manly-hand-clasp thing again, this time complete with shoulder touching. "Take care of yourself out there, brother," Roger said. "This was such a colossal favor, I don't think you'll understand."

"Don't worry about it. And you can pay me back by stopping through on the return trip, alright?"

"Last I checked, this ride was _you_ paying _me_ back," Roger said, but quickly amended: "But we'll be here anyway. We might as well."

Then, Roger to me: "I'll go get our room keys. Try and steal some more food from Oliver."

"There's none left," I said, because I wasn't smart enough to realize he was leaving the two of us alone. Roger went through the sliding doors and into the BnB. It was Oliver, me, and the convertible.

I stuffed the PokeNav and its box into my backpack, zipped it up, and shouldered it. "Oliver, it was great to meet you—"

"I've got something to say," Oliver said, and something about the dark almost-alley and the man twice my height almost worried me.

But then I remembered that view of the highway, and Duran Duran, and our parents, and I wasn't worried in the slightest. "What is it?"

"It's about Roger." Oliver shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned a bit. I wondered if he was top-heavy enough to be blown over. "He hasn't…He hasn't opened up much, has he? As a guy, I mean."

As opposed to what? "I'm confused."

"The whole time I've known the guy, he's been all goofy and cheery, and don't get me wrong, I owe him for _everything_ , but he's like, distant. He's here and he's not. Hell, I don't even know how he got my phone number. He never asked for it, and he wasn't around long enough for me to give it."

"I don't…"

"I'm just saying: if Rog seems like he's getting personal, or introspective or something like that…keep an eye out."

"Sure," I said, only-sort-of-comprehending.

"Anyway." Suddenly a grin from Oliver King. "I've got a lady waiting for me back home. I need to get going. Get in touch sometime, yeah?"

A thought occurred to me.

I fished through my bag and took out the PokeNav. I shoved it at him.

"It's a gift, Mary. We went over this—"

"Your phone number," I said, in the most awkward way of asking for a phone number that the world had ever seen. "So we can call you once we're back from Littleroot Town."

"Littleroot Town? That _is_ a master quest." His thumbs tapped on the screen. Then he closed the gadget and shoved it in my backpack. "There you go. Take it easy, glasses."

I felt like I should have hugged him, but I didn't. I think he was glad I didn't, too. We got that about each other.

I made my way to the inside of the BnB. I heard Oliver's car door open and close, and the engine started.

I had an impulse.

"Oliver!" I called back.

He looked up over the dashboard.

"Good luck finding your ordinary world."

He laughed a sad, inward laugh that spread over his face in a slow smile.

And then he was gone.

…

"Roger?"

"Yes, Mary?"

"Why did we have to share a bed again?"

"The reservation was only for a king-size. I didn't think it was worth paying twice as much for two beds."

"I guess that makes sense." Then: "Roger?"

"Yes?"

"Are you even tired?"

"No. But I spent a full day as an Arcanine, so I need to spend the night as a human."

"Why did you do that? Do you need to be human all day tomorrow?"

I felt him nod beside me.

"This bed is cold," I said. "It's stiff, too."

"I'm sorry. It's only for the night."

"I know. It still sucks."

"If you were wearing more than that, I'd offer to warm you up with my body. But I get the feeling that would be a bit awkward." I saw the Roger smile in the darkness. "For you, at any rate."

I looked out at the high window. No stars tonight.

"Roger?"

"Hm?"

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"I…I'm not hot, or cute, or pretty or anything like that."

He didn't respond. "I'm making it awkward," I said.

"Not at all."

"When I was in middle school, one of Kurt's friends said he wouldn't feel me up if he was wearing oven mitts."

"Clearly, this fellow was an ignoramus. And his taste in ladies remains deplorable."

"You're doing it again!"

"Fair enough. I think that you're lovely, Mary Mackle. I think that you're marvelous, and—mark my words—I will let nothing happen to you while you're with me." He poked my tummy. "How was that?"

Could he see me smile the way I saw him? "That was very sweet."

"I hoped it was."

"I'm still cold."

He edged over an inch or two. His hand was suddenly at my side, then reaching out and resting on my back, with his arm draped over me beneath the flimsy covers. His other arm was folded between us, and he intertwined a few of our fingers.

"Is that better?"

"A little."

"I hope so. Goodnight, Mary Mackle."

"Are you going to sleep at all?"

A pause. " _Goodnight_ , Mary Mackle."

* * *

Thanks for reading, and thanks a bunch more for reviewing. You guys are the best.


	7. Don't you let him go

Mary, Meet Arcanine

…

Chapter 7 – "Don't you let him go."

I did not intend for Roger and I to be cuddling.

I might have held his hand, and he might have kissed my forehead in the middle of the night when he though I wasn't awake, but that was all normal. (Mary-and-Roger normal is weird.)

I woke up completely wrapped up in the guy. My face was pressed into the nook where his collarbone met his neck, and he smelled of dog hair and the fresh outside. Our legs had wrapped up around each other into a ball of limbs, and I looked down, at them, unsure of where I ended and he began.

No, that is _not_ foreshadowing. I am an English student. I know better.

I sat up slowly. I almost forgot that I was bra-less and so my girls nearly flew into Roger's line of vision. I did a quick check to make sure my panties were still on.

Good god, one night out of the house and I wake up like this. Was I proving every frightened parent right, or what?

…Was my father frightened? Did he have any idea where I—

 _Quick! Change the topic!_

"Roger?" I poked him with my pinky finger. He stirred, barely. "Are you up?"

"Of course."

I remembered our conversation last night. "Did you sleep at all?"

"I blinked in and out." He held his hands up to his face. "I kept my human form the whole time, so that's a good sign. I need to survive a six hour bus ride, surrounded by the dregs of society and what we're meant to believe is bathroom, while being a human. This was a successful training run for my endurance, Mary Mackle."

I found myself smiling at the Roger-ness of the statement.

Anyway.

I slipped out of bed and started to dress. I won't say I felt Roger's eyes on me, but…well, he was an eighteen-year-old boy, right? And I was a girl of similar age. If he wasn't ogling me, I would have been stunned. But then, why was I getting dressed like this when we had a perfectly good bathroom?

I decided it was better to not ask those questions.

"We're taking a bus?" I asked. "Like…a…school bus?"

Roger slapped the covers. "Mary! Don't tell me you've never experienced the joy that is traveling the country by bus!"

I looked over my shoulder and shook my head. Roger was already dressed, but he didn't seem to be staring at me _that_ way. Darn.

Oh no.

Oh, _no_.

In that moment, half-naked and far from home, with a cute boy (technically) who made me laugh and cuddled me at night, I didn't know what I wanted.

"Mary?" Roger waved his fingers. "You're staring at me funny."

I snapped back to attention and shoved my body into whatever clothes came out of the duffel bag first, hoping against hope that Roger couldn't see my tomato-red face.

…

Breakfast was near the lobby, where we had come in after parting ways with Oliver. In the extra room that had been sealed off the night before, Roger and I found a spread of freezer waffles, bagels, pre-made French toast, cereal, and a few spreads. The hot chocolate and orange juice machines droned where they sat, waiting to be put out of their misery. I was suddenly acutely aware of how my feet made that sticky sound along the tile, and how the whole place smelled like cigarette smoke.

No wonder it was a bed and breakfast. You probably didn't want to stay for longer than that.

Roger signed us out at the front desk and joined me in the breakfast room. I had found us a round wood table to sit at. It wobbled, but all four legs seemed to be firmly on the ground. Huh.

"We have a bit of a walk to our next destination," Roger said. He was looking over a map of Mauville City that had been scribbled over in black sharpie. He traced his finger along one particular line. "We've got an hour to make it there, so we're not in _much_ of a hurry, but I mean…we're on a schedule, you know?"

"I know," I said. My father's face flashed in my eyes. I shuddered.

"Are you cold?" Roger asked. I told him I wasn't. Bless him, he knew to change the subject. "Hey, this is your first time traveling, right?"

I stared blankly at him. "Was that rhetorical?"

"Well, hey. If you already know all there is to know about a BnB…" He jammed half of an uncut cinnamon bagel into his mouth.

In the silence, I wanted to reach across and put his hand on my cheek again. Except we weren't in bed anymore; whatever we became at night, we were simply Mary and Roger during the day.

"I'm sorry," I said for my snideness.

"What for?"

I glowered. Wasn't my jerk-itude obvious?

"No, really. What for?" Roger swallowed, then smiled. "You're a grump in the mornings. I know this about you. Don't apologize. Now, finish that cardboard you're eating and come with me. I wanna show you something."

I felt insulted for the waffles, but then I got a good look at the ones I was force-feeding myself. Cardboard didn't do it justice. "Is it a trap?"

"I don't know. Do you still think I'm an evil girl trafficker?"

After we ate, Roger led me through the lobby and back to the rooms. We stopped at the very first door, and Roger pushed it open. "Roger!" I warned. "Someone might be in there!"

"Nope. Look."

The door swung all the way open. I've been leaning pretty hard on smelling things this chapter—Roger in the morning, the BnB lobby—but believe me: the unmistakable aroma of used books hit me with the force of a bullet train.

I waddled into the small room, arms at my side, careful not to knock anything over.

There were no shelves. Only boxes.

Boxes and boxes and boxes of paperback books, stacked high to the sky. (Actually, the ceiling.) Cardboard boxes faced outward, and the crammed books stared at me wistfully, almost like the new Wonder Trade Pokemon back home. The only furniture were two folded-up metal step-stools by the window, and another wobbly table, the same as downstairs.

I did a three-sixty turn, my eyes taking in the display. "What _is_ all this?"

"The cool thing about traveling," Roger started, leaning into the doorway. "It's that only smart people do it. And regardless of what the film industry believes, smart people tend to read a lot. So, hostels and BnBs almost always have a room like this."

"A private library?"

"Better. It's a free book trade."

I was careful. "Now, when you say the word 'free'…"

"It's not _technically_ free," Roger said, gesturing with his hands. "It's supposed to be that you take one book, and you leave one. Maybe you sign it, too. It keeps you connected to everyone walking the path around you. But since you didn't pack any books, I figure you're allowed to take one starter."

Me, still not getting it: "And I can keep it?"

"Mary Mackle, you are focusing too much on rules that do not exist. Here, do what I do."

Roger made a show of perusing one particular outward-facing box. He pulled out one title and scanned the cover, with his finger and thumb cradling his stubbly chin. "Hmmmmm. Yes. Yes, I like this one quite a bit." He held it above his head. "I think I will take this with me to my destination. I will read it and be connected to those who share my path."

He started for the table, but then his eyes went wide. "Gasp! What is this!" Roger zipped past me to another box, in the far corner. "This tome is wondrous as well. But alas, I am only allowed one volume as a traveler! What am I to do?"

I folded my arms and tapped my toe. The stiff carpet muffled the sound.

"Perhaps, I might be able to abscond with both!" Roger continued. "I have the space in my luggage…who would refuse my desire to read? Oh, right: _nobody!"_

Roger let the two books fall on the table from where he held them, high above his head. They landed with a flat 'thwap' sound, and the first book let out a wave of dust.

"Did you randomly pick out two books just to teach me a lesson?" I asked.

"Not even. I placed those there strategically. Have a look." Roger gestured back to the table.

One was a graphic novel. Immediately I wanted to push it away—I mean, comics?—but the homesickness for watching Cartoon Network with Linc settled at the pit of my stomach. " _Lost at Sea_. By Bryan O'Malley…Roger, this looks melancholy as hell."

"It is! That's why it's perfect for you. You're a fifteen-year-old who uses the word 'melancholy'. You'll love it. Guaranteed, or you can drop it at the next hostel."

"How many hostels are we staying at, by the way?"

"Not many," Roger said dismissively.

I put _Lost at Sea_ down and looked at the other book. "Roger, I'm not supposed to read _On The Road_ until I'm like, twenty-five and washed up."

"Or," Roger retorted, " _Or_ , reading it now will keep you from ever being washed-up."

I picked up both books and felt the weight of them. They could totally fit in my bag. A side-effect of trying to outrun my sleeping father—which made more sense at the time—meant I was a light traveler for the moment.

"Anywho," Roger said. "I'm gonna go wait in the lobby. I figure you probably want some time to find something to read."

That didn't seem right to me. Roger saw it on my face. "What, have to go to the can? Your face is all scrunched."

"I'm good on books," I said. Two books was rule-breaking enough, no matter what Roger thought.

"As long as you're sure," he said. "Ready to saddle up?"

"That only works happens in Westerns."

"Well then, I'm pioneering it as a universal phrase," Roger said.

…

I hated walking, back at home. _Hated_ it.

It wasn't the physical exercise that nagged me. I'm not one of those girls who complains about chub-rub on her thighs and refuses to go have fun because she's 'tired'. Walking is fine in itself.

Walking beside Roger on the eight-foot-wide sidewalks, my head craned up at a ninety-degree angle to take in the army of skyscrapers, revealed what sucked so badly about roughing it in the country. Home was the only building for an hour in any direction. A place like Mauville City was a pool of unique buildings, each one vying for attention from an army of people headed to and fro, unaware.

Roger yanked me to the side, and I narrowly avoided crashing into a man in a suit. "Sorry," Roger called back. Then, to me: " _People_. How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine," I said. I had my backpack on and held the straps in my hands. The duffel bag didn't seem that horrible when the walk was pretty. "Are we there yet?"

"I'll let you know," he said. "Anyway, a heads-up. The bus terminal is in the fashion district of town."

"So?"

"Well, this is the business district. Hence the suits walking right into the out-of-place teenagers."

Proving the point, a taller, older man with a gray beard and hopefully-intentionally-matching suit shoulder-checked Roger and kept on moving. "Ow," Roger groaned. Hollering at the shoulder-checker: "That hurt! Health insurance isn't free in Hoenn yet, you know!"

Then, to me: "The Pokemon Center totally is, though."

"The fashion district," I said to remind Roger what the conversation was.

"Right. It's the pits. Stay close to me."

"It's barely the middle of the day," I whined, but Roger had none of it. We continued moving.

Twenty minutes later, Mauville City changed the way the seasons did: slowly at first, and then shoving everything at you all at once, right down to the decorations. Skyscrapers were replaced with squat brick stores, most of which were sealed off with steel shutters. Most everything had some form of graffiti. I didn't recognize any of it, meaning no Team Aqua, but still.

The shops themselves altered. Gone were the boutiques that I would never in a million years have willingly shopped at; in their stead were a parade of oddly-sketchy-looking store stands selling backpacks, dolls, action figures that didn't seem quite legitimate—'Action People' instead of 'Power Rangers'—and the occasional ice cream man. They all had the same leer at me while we passed.

The buildings became shorter and shorter, and the sidewalk narrower and narrower, and soon it was a good few hours on the road and my legs were killing me.

Roger offered hope. He dug into his back pocket and found his map. "We're down this way," he said, gesturing down a wide, faceless street. We took two steps, but then he paused again.

"What is it this time?" I asked.

"If anyone asks what we're up to," Roger started.

"I won't say a thing. I'm a runaway; my face is probably all over the news. I don't even have the PokeNav connected to the global network, I'm very aware—"

"That's all good stuff, Mary, but I mean the Eteorite-May."

"Pig latin? Etorite…Meteorite!"

Roger shushed me. I apologized.

"I'm not saying don't talk to anyone," Roger continued. "Just…don't tell them all the details."

I nodded. "Omit certain truths. Got it."

The bus station was a long, squat building. The front facing the street was all wide windows, and inside, I saw a front desk and a seating area similar to what the Internet said airports were like.

I have never taken a commuter bus, and I certainly haven't flown. Roger would never know that one; I wouldn't hear the end of it.

Roger pulled the station door open. "Ladies first."

We went to the front desk. An older woman with a curved spine and olive-shaped glasses greeted us from her computer terminal. "Don't see many young couples out this far," she said.

Roger, before I could correct that: "We'd like two tickets for Slateport City, ma'am."

The woman straightened up as much as she could, then started tacking at her keyboard. "When are you two departing?"

"Can we be on the next bus out? One-way?"

The woman was quiet for a moment as she put in the request.

My stupid paranoid eyes glanced around and found the TV in the corner of the waiting room. Showing the daily news, of course.

What if this woman recognized me from some broadcast? What if my head really _was_ all over the place?

Roger's hand on mine.

"Just breathe," he told me. The woman looked up at us. "It's her sister," Roger said. "Helena just went into labor. We were here visiting my parents, and I didn't want to go but Mary didn't want to make a bad impression. Now _this_ happens—"

"That's awful!" The woman answered, clearly drinking up the bullshit soup. "Don't you worry, dears. There's a bus leaving in half an hour. It gets into Slateport Terminal a little after five. That's the best I can do."

"That's wonderful!" Roger beamed. "How much is it?"

The woman softened. She saw Roger and his infinite Roger energy, then me and my typical fat-mouse-with-braids self, and then the woman was watching where his and my hand met. She ticked in another keystroke. "Fifty dollars even, for both of you."

"Fifty dollars? Online the price was—"

"It's called an employee discount, and be quiet about it!"

Roger handed over a crisp fifty, and the woman printed out our tickets and tags for our meager luggage. She slid them over the desk slowly.

"Slateport Terminal, bus leaves in thirty minutes out of gate 4. Be careful, out there, dears," she said.

"Thank you _so_ much!" Roger nudged me, and I followed: "T-thank you, ma'am."

She singled me out. "You! Young lady!"

I went rigid.

"You remind me of my granddaughter, so I'll tell you: this boy, right here? He's a good egg. Don't you let him go."

"I don't plan to, ma'am."

Roger tugged at my hand. We took our tickets and baggage tags and sat in the hard, plastic and multicolored seats at gate 4. One of those signs with red electronic words moved above the gate: Bus 8891, Hoenn Central.

"Hoenn Central?" I asked. "Is that the bus's name?"

Roger nodded. "Our bus cuts right down the middle of the continent. It starts at Fortree City, and comes down through Mauville, and ends up in Slateport."

"There are already people on the bus?"

Roger nodded. "If you're worried about stranger danger, sit next to me."

We sat quietly for the next thirty minutes. Or to be more accurate, Roger sat quietly. I fidgeted for fifteen of them, worrying that the woman at the desk was watching us and expecting Roger and I to get, I don't know, PDA-y or something.

The voice called out over the loudspeaker: "Line 8991 to Slateport City approaching Gate 17." I leaned past Roger's body and saw the bus pull up to its designated space, on the other side of the door labeled '17'.

I don't know what I had expected, but the bus still surprised me. I was only used to those yellow school buses, or maybe those metro busses around Mauville City. The bus we would be on was easily twice the size of either of those.

"Here we go," Roger said.

The gate door opened. We watched as a few people got off of the bus and rubbed daytime sleep from their eyes. They were all different ages, and I spotted a mother with a toddler, which surprised me, too. I assumed only young people were day travelers. Or travelers at all.

The driver came off the bus last. He wore pleated pants, a blue shirt with a darker navy vest, and an almost military-style cap. The driver opened a compartment toward the underside of the bus, and this was evidently where checked baggage went. The driver pulled a few bags off, passengers collected their luggage, and they came through gate 17. I kept my head down as they passed.

"Now boarding!" This was the driver's voice. He waited at the gate threshold. Roger pulled me by the hand and walked me to the driver, holding our tickets. The driver read them quickly. "Two for Slateport?"

"That's us," Roger said.

The driver tore the tickets off and handed Roger the stubs. "Any checked luggage?"

"One bag," Roger said. I handed the driver my duffel. I hadn't put the claim tag on yet; the driver took it from Roger and deftly tied the little slip of paper around my bag handle.

"Can we get on, now?" I asked meekly. The driver nodded. He put my duffel under the bus with the rest of the bags, and Roger took me to the bus's stairs. Buses have stairs, apparently.

We stared down the aisle and looked for seats. The front half of the bus was completely taken up with people minding their own business—headphones in, books out, laptop screens glowing—and the back half was mostly single people hogging up two seats. Cleaning supplies burned my nostrils. I remembered Roger saying busses had bathrooms.

"Can we be closer to the front?" I asked.

"Worried about bathroom proximity," Roger said, nodding toward the cubicle-sized compartment in the very back. "Got it."

We found a pair of seats, luckily. Un-luckily, the window seat had the worst view. It was the kind where I was seated in the break in the panoramic window. I saw the edge of the person in front of me's window, and the first bit of the person behind me. Great.

Roger sidled into the seat beside me. The armrest was still up and out of the way. He didn't put it down to separate us.

I didn't tell Roger that the spot where our arms touched was on fire.

"If you're worried about your bag, don't be," Roger continued. "Nobody loses their stuff on bus rides. Besides, isn't all the important stuff in there?" He tapped the backpack, and he was right. The PokeNav, my wallet with my money and my ID, a pair of underwear, spare hair ties, and the hostel books were here with me.

It seemed we were the only people leaving Mauville City. Nobody got on after Roger and me.

I remembered Lincoln wondering if he should move to Mauville City. I had walked through the pretty and the bleak parts of it today, and dear reader, I did not see the appeal.

…

Bus rides are the worst.

It was interesting at first. We pulled onto the highway, and I got to see the sprawl of Mauville's skyline with the midday glow behind it.

Twenty minutes later, I discovered a strange fact about the Pokemon World.

No matter what kind of wasteland it is, _everywhere_ has a wasteland.

I was used to Buttonwillow and the outlying nothingness. Mauville City presented us with short, off-green grass as far as the eye went. Without the ocean to orient the view like it did from my bedroom window, I was instantly turned around. Which way was west? Which was east? If I had to walk this with Roger, would even a Pokemon like him navigate?

And the Pokemon! Manectric ran alongside us, racing with the Tailow in the air, both gangs of Pokemon tryingand failing to outrace our mysterious man-made leviathan barreling down the empty single road. At home, the Zigzagoon and Wingull could care less about people. Did Slateport City Pokemon like humans more? Or maybe we worried them?

As if on cue.

"I realize it's stupid to start a fight with there's no way to escape," Roger began cautiously. "But I think you should call Nimona and tell her you're okay."

This was Serious Roger again, who was now a distinct individual. Like the Dads.

"Roger, that's a horrible idea."

Roger shook his head. "Don't tell her where we are, or anything about the plan. All Nimona needs to hear is that you're okay, and that you won't be home soon, but you plan on it."

Then, Roger still: "What's that look? It's a dubious thinking look, isn't it?" He raised a finger and hovered it in front of my nose. My eyes started to cross. I swatted his hand and cleaned my glasses.

"My dad's probably asking where I am. I don't want to get her in trouble if she says something she's not—"

"Nimona's a big girl. You are too, you know."

"She's prettier," I mumbled. I think Roger caught it because he grumbled at me.

I could tell Roger wouldn't let it go. Primarily because he spent the next ten minutes poking me in the side, right where I porked out under my bra.

"I'll do it," I finally agreed. "But not…not now, okay? Not right now?"

"Why not now?"

"I don't feel comfortable."

"Too many people watching you?" He pointed to the infinite sea of nothing outside. Jerk. "How about calling her at the rest stop?"

"Buses take rest stops?"

"They have to. The drivers would probably go postal if they had to drive around without stretching. Hell, the passengers might attack, too." He held up hands in the shape of a screen. " _When Passengers Attack._ "

We had two seconds of companionable silence, and then Roger dropped the A-bomb on planet Mary. He cleared his throat and asked: "Why did you drop out of school?"

"Come again?"

"You heard me," he said playfully. Then, all seriousness: "The Mary I know uses big words, she reads, and she knows when she has to be bold. That's not somebody who up and quits getting an education."

My fingers were fiddling again. "If I call Nimona, can I not answer that question?"

Roger's winning smile confirmed that he won this round. The bastard.

…

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into my first truck stop. The bus rolled up to a parking space the size of my house, lined up alongside two parked trucks and another bus like ours. There was a larger-than-average convenience store connected to a Taco Bell waiting us, plus a few benches, and then nothing on the horizon in any direction.

"Thirty minutes," the driver said over the intercom. Again: "Thirty minutes, then four hours to Slateport."

"Mary Mackle, how much money do you have on you?"

I fumbled with the pouch in my bag. "I haven't spent any of it yet," I remembered. "Why?"

Cue his stomach rumbling. "But not Taco Bell," he said. "Anything but Taco Bell."

I had never had Taco Bell. "What's wrong with that?"

"I hate dog food."

I followed the handful of passengers off of the bus. My feet hit the pavement and it felt wonderful, feeling the pull of my hamstrings and the cleanliness of the outdoors air. It wasn't quite home, but it was leagues better than Mauville. My heartstrings ached only a bit.

Inside the Taco Bell line was already ten people deep. Each of them were pimply, overweight, bald, or some lethal combination of the two. I shuddered for Roger.

My own decision of two Three Muskateers bars, two diet root beers, and two of those shrink-wrapped submarine sandwiches wasn't much better. At least I didn't have to see what I would look like after eathing this while I waited in line to pay for it.

I was almost at checkout when one of those shelves at the exit caught my eye. You know the type: the strategically-placed displays with clearance video games and albums, each one of the god-awful variety. This one was different. There was an entire rotating caddy for Westerns.

I picked one up and fought down a howl of a laugh.

"Hey, watch out," said the girl in front of me. "Don't hack a furball at me."

"Sorry," I said.

She observed me the way I had observed the Taco Bell line. "You got on at Mauville, didn't you?"

I nodded, and then I remembered I wasn't supposed to. Face on the early-morning news, and all.

"That guy with you is your boyfriend?"

I nodded again. Only because that was easier than denying it.

The girl's face softened. If I had to guess, she was Oliver King's age. Not quite a grown-up, not quite a kid. "Hey, let me give you a hint. Your boy is all hands right now, right?"

I didn't respond. She took it as a positive sign. "Typical," she said. "Boys, am I right? Can't make it on a bus ride without wanting to get in a girl's pants. I could tell you stories, kid."

Again, no response from me.

"Get him the book," she continued. "All the boyfriends I've had? They _loved_ Westerns. I don't get it, myself. If you want to travel and fight crooks and whatnot, just _do it_. But that's me." She had a playful shrug, even though her words were dead-serious. "The book will keep him off of you. Your hips will be thanking me."

…Ew?

"What's your name?" She asked me. "I'm Belinda."

"Mary," I said.

Belinda took my hand forcefully and shook it with enthusiasm. We waited a moment before getting back on the bus. "Remember to give him the Western right when you sit down," Belinda said. "Keeps his grubby paws to himself. Unless you're, you know, into being grubby-pawed."

I might have been.

"I guess I'll see you in Slateport, right?" Belinda said. Belinda wore her hair in the weirdest way: she had two almost-kind-of pigtails high up on the back of her head, where they flicked down and met with the rest of her mahogany hair, which flowed down to her collarbone. How the hell did she maintain that?

Belinda sat toward the front of the bus with nobody beside her. She collapsed into her two seats and gave me a thumbs-up as I passed.

"Food, food, food!" Roger chanted. "And what's that?"

"I got you a book," I told him.

"The man with the rifle and cowboy hat on the cover worries me…just like the shrink wrap on that sandwich," Roger said slowly, "But I'm not one to look a gift Girafarig in the mouth." He clearly enjoyed that pun.

The book didn't keep me and Roger from touching. We were hand-holding an hour later.

It did keep him distracted enough to not ask about me calling Nimona. Belinda turned her head and found me over the seatbacks, and I waved in gratitude.

The sun set over the horizon. The waters of Slateport were almost visible.

* * *

Eight chapters of slice-of-life. That's quite the relaxed pizza-pie.

As always! Thanks a bunch for reading, and you're the best if you review.


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